


Sweep them away/I would sooner die

by avaloncat555



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work, The Groac'h of the Isle of Lok (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Character Study, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Logic, Family, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Female-Centric, Folklore, Friendship, Grandmothers, Magic-Users, Magical Artifacts, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Other, POV Female Character, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Story within a Story, Worldbuilding, common sense is precious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 21:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18668335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avaloncat555/pseuds/avaloncat555
Summary: Lanillis used to be mundane village, before Bellah Postik, now Poggam,  went out in world to face off against magic and fairies, and thus brought it to attention of Story. Or at least, that is what people think.What they don't know is that years and ears ago, Katarin Souvestre (not yet Postik), heard animals speak, and said ''No.''





	Sweep them away/I would sooner die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



> Hi! Thanks for choosing this story, it was very interesting to work with, and made me want to see and learn more of Breton folklore, though I tried to adapt others, but this one stuck to me most. I hope you like it.  
> So, about this story, I set out to write two things, about Katarin getting magical items, possibly from Groac'h, and then about Bellah using them in various ways over years. However, first line of your request intrigued me so much, and I grew to love Katarin so much, that I wrote more and more about her, and had to find different ways she earned magical items instead of getting them all at once. So this is prequel to Groac'h, wholly about how Bellah's mother got her magical treasures. I hope you aren't angry, as i really went off rails from canon.  
> There is nothing trigger-worthy i think, but some violence is mentioned but not graphically described, as well as bad behavior of villagers towards strangers.

Once upon a time, there was a village, and in that village lived a girl.

Now, to be honest, this really isn’t something special. There are villages aplenty in the world, and each of them has at least dozen girls living in it (if we assume it is a prospering, mundane village, not one on edge of becoming ghost town, as more and more young leave ancestral homes to seek fortune in wider world, of course). And once upon a time isn’t really exact description, to be quite honest. But that is what we have to say, or something along those lines, so you would know this is a fairy tale. For people forget, or don’t like to think, that fairy tales can happen here and now. They belong to past and distant places, so far away and so long ago that nothing matters but their point, the moral at their core.

Of course, it is also important that several personages mentioned here are still active, and if we stated a date that might prompt them to go on a vengeful rampage involving plagues, changelings and mass slaughter against all who know this tale, because people always retell fairy tales and therefore word may get to certain members of Fair Courts, who might determine personages described here hid at Earth in same timeframe they were suspected of plotting a rebellion against current ruler, which is just more complication than what anybody needs.

Still, I can tell you that this tale happened at least hundred and nine years ago, if not far more, in a small village in Britanny, which no more stands, for not a hovel has remained of it. And of all people who lived there, some wonderful, some horrible, and most mundane, neither one or other, only two of it’s folk are remembered.  And for good reason, for they had quite an adventure, and some others too afterwards, though people don’t remember those were same people, for they were not main characters, but just donors and helpers, who to be honest often move tales along all alone.

But this is not a tale about them. This is story of what came before them, and made their lives possible. This is fairy tale about fairy tales, about past of past.

* * *

 

Once upon a time, there was girl, and her name was Katarin Souvestre. She lived in nameless village that had no name, and still it had a thousand, for villagers didn’t care to name it, as for them nothing existed beyond it’s borders, or at least nothing of worth, and every map and traveler had different name for it, as they called it by whatever caught their eye first, whether that be bush of dragon’s teeth growing nearby, or three small mounds left of it’s borders. Still, over the years other people more or less settled on name of Lanillis, which villagers accepted because it wasn’t horrible, and that was good enough for them, even if they grumbled about others deciding name of their home for them, which was understandable, even if they all argued who gets to saddle neighbors with more insulting names.

It was, in minds of it’s inhabitants, a perfect home, and Katarin didn’t disagree. The Village was big enough that they had even a few smaller manors, and that there were divisions among houses and streets that almost resembled neighborhoods. But it was still small enough to live comfortably and most important of all, mundanely.  For in those times many wonderful and terrible things happened in land, for magic and immortals were afoot (they still are, sometimes, but far fewer, but one day they will return, as tide ebbs and flows). But in ages none of these things have happened near to Lanillis, for which they were all thankful. They heard about them, you see, a girl who spit out snakes and toads whenever she talked, and that whole business with a princess’ fourteenth birthday, and they wanted none of it, thank you very much.

Katarin was a proper, respectable girl. Loved and approved by all villagers, except for Poggams down the well, on account of what their Winoc told our Alan sixty years ago. She was tall in a way everybody said was quite striking yet still proper for a woman, which mainly meant she was taller then other girls but not tall enough to make village lads feel insecure. She could speak quite well, but only when necessary. She didn’t talk back to her elders, but was more than happy to hiss at her cousins when they were being bratty, as was her God given right as eldest child of a very wide family. She was diligent and hard-working, taking seriously to all her duties, but she was never a spoilsport.  She would milk every cow they held (which weren’t many, but still enough for them all to survive), and then she would go to spin with other girls, or when she was younger, roll in mud with all children of village, but only if she didn’t wear her good dresses.

She was friendly with all of her peers, but didn’t really speak with Mari of Poggams down the well, to the great pleasure of her numerous relatives, who all had very good memory and also steadfastly held belief that every esteemed and proper house should have enmity with another family, all the better if they were distant relatives of some sort. But unlike noblemen and heroes (the latter of these words always said with a scoff), who had time to waste on dilly-dallying and being stupid, they solved it in reasonable, proper ways.

So instead of stabbing each other and conjuring fevers on children, they loudly shouted how Poggams cabbage is incredible addition to any soup, and very sweetly asked if shy, withdrawn Mari needed some help to strike up better friendships, _after all our Katarin is so sociable after all, don’t you agree, of course you do, no_?

She was stout and strongly built, with such thick arms that there was no mistaking how often she carried firewood home, cleaned heavy iron cauldrons and saved her vegetables from weeds, with a lovely round face full of freckles and acne scars and auburns curls, a big and sharp nose, wide and strong teeth, warm brown eyes and nails always covered with baked dirt.  In short, a perfect farm girl and furthest thing from a protagonist. She had a stepmother, who was a very patient and sweet woman who somehow managed a family of eight children (and only Katarin knew for sure which of them were hers and which born to Katarin’s mother). The greatest monster that she had ever faced was a goose violent even by goose standards, and the closest thing to a witch she knew was her Old Nan, who had the temper of bear, the malice of seagulls, and the compassion of rusted iron nails and propriety in each of her bones, and Katarin was perfectly content with such life, because she was raised properly and didn’t have time for such nonsense as quests and curses, or competition between (step)siblings.

The only thing she would change about herself would be unfortunate tendency to understand animals.

* * *

 

Katarin knew fairy tales well, for several reasons.

First, once she was child, and no matter how much she hated them now, she was raised listening to them. There is a point at which every child is put to sleep with stories, when they dream of being a princess and a knight and a dragon, until they grow up to know better. And even in Lanillis, in which people prided themselves on being completely normal and not holding with such nonsenses, children were taught about witches in woods and lying wolves.

Second, when you want to prevent something, you educate people about it. Properly and completely. Children of Lanillis grew up knowing not to stray from forest paths, not to answer when birds called out, not to speak with crones they found on crossroads, not to pick up money they found on bridges, not to try their luck when kings issued contests for hand of princesses, not to go away from home and safety...

Third, Katarin’s great- grandmother, known by all as Old Nan or ‘’that hag refusing to die that we tolerate only because she bakes lovely meat pies, and also because we aren’t sure if we can take her out’’, was feared and respected through the whole region for how incredibly proper she was, almost as much as she was argumentative. She had the tongue of a viper and the sensitivity of nettle, and had to be best in everything, surpassing all other and feeding herself on their envy. Katarin and her siblings have spent years on Old Nan’s boney knees, until they were too big so she sat them by fireplace, listening to her whisper folk wisdom and fairy tales with more reverence than priests had for the Bible, her arthritis-stricken fingers shaking, her wrinkled face twisting as she retold stories and legends of all sorts, from all lands and nations (for Old Nan was always ready to host travelers overnight, for to deny them food and roof would be height of  bad manners, and she gathered and treasured grimly  stories and warnings until she had even more of them then hairpins that held up her bun (which was by this point was more steel than hair).

So, Katarin knew stories well, and she knew she wanted nothing to do with them.

* * *

 

‘’Awful clover chewy. Teeth tired.’’ The Sheep complained, their voices deep and dull and monotonous, prickling at Katarin’s brain. Unfortunately for her and luckily for the whole village, the only thing that came out of it’s snout was a throaty _baaaa_ , which meant that the sheep was normal and Katarin had to bury down her desperate need to tell it to knock off with complaining.

‘’Girl horrible.’’ If it was human and capable of complex emotion, said words (not really, but more like emotions and opinions of animal translated by magic in words for Katarin’s comprehension, as far as she could tell) would have been spoken with a mixture of hatred, irritation, malice and derision, but thankfully sheep weren’t capable of that, or so Katarin told herself. The reasonable, polite portion of her brain told her she got what she deserved for pulling its ear, while the angry, tired portion told her that next time they need meat for a feast she will choose this sheep.

She never complains. It is dangerous, after all- magic calls to magic, and Katarin is smarter than naïve children of tales she had read. She knows well what sort of creatures stalk the shadows out there, creeping on people as cursed as her, waiting for a slip of tongue, a thoughtless word, to claim it permission to twist and destroy lives. But she will not allow her home to be cursed because some witch or spirit thought that her frustrated ramblings would be amusing if they were forced to become literal reality.

Not to mention, if somebody saw girl from happy, comfortable family angrily complain to sheep and whine about how it treated her, they would come to unfortunate conclusion (she wasn’t sure what was worse, if they realized the nature of problem, or thought her mad).

She could possibly hide it from others, but not Old Nan, who insisted on overseeing all works, from cleaning dishes to the butchering of cows. She was nearing hundred years, and yet she has sight as keen as that of eagle, and hearing sharper than that of rabbit, and could smell trouble like a bloodhound.  In her cold, analytical mind Katarin’s great-grandmother kept extensive, detailed notes on habits, quirks and personalities of each member of their extensive family tree. She knew what sort of apron Katarin’s stepmother wore when she was making sweets she didn’t like, what sort of shoes Katarin’s aunt wore at funerals of people she didn’t like, what sort of face Katarin’s mother’s half-sister made when she got hit with bird droppings, how Katarin talked when she didn’t have enough food that day... No other old woman would figure out immediately what was happening, and once she was over the shock of something so awful and strange and magical happening in _her_ proper, respectable home, she would stage intervention and then...

Well, there was no use in thinking of worst case scenario. Needless panic- Old Nan may have been full of harsh words and impatient, but she adored her family, dedicated her whole life to them. Still, she was old and such shock would be very unhealthy for her. So Katarin swallowed down her instinct to argue with sheep and listened to it complain about incredible clovers on her father’s field, and thought of how next spring she would have delicious mutton for lunch, prepared all on her own...

* * *

 

Some people dreamed of it- of becoming protagonists, heroes, main characters. They dreamed of finding out their parents were just caretakers, that they would learn strange old woman had cursed them in cradle, that they would hear animals talk. They were fools, all of them, Katarin knew. Worse than fools, they were shallow jerks. Imagine abandoning people who raised you, who loved and fed you, for what? To get shiny sword and go out to kill dragons (which she doubted was possible, given their size and tendency to set things on fire)? To abandon honest work and become aristocrat (better be a leech)? To go and destroy thousand years old wizard-emperor, thus utterly throwing world’s economy and politics in chaos?

All heroes were selfish, immature fools, running around and getting themselves into trouble. They were proclaimed great and good and celebrated because they killed somebody, or because they had strange dresses, or won favor of some pest such as mice or foxes. Well, Katarin had chickens to tend, and little brother’s diapers to change, and butter to churn, and she could see no use in spitting pearls or having shoes of gold or dresses the colour of the moon. She was raised properly, and was grateful for that, thank you very much.

Some may have thought themselves to have gone mad, once they heard animals talking. But Katarin knew what was happening, for she understood animals since she was born, could almost remember times when she was still infant and couldn’t speak, when her mind didn’t translate needs of animals in words. For what she heard and knew were pure instincts, were simple desires and bare needs, impulses and urges. She couldn’t even call them properly emotions. Hunger, drive to mate, fear of predators, fear for offspring, deference to masters. Those things whispered in her ear in garbled words, boring and stupid and ugly, distracting her even as they helped her figure out what was wrong.

The tale attempted to creep upon her, to draw her in with sweet promises and sweeter rewards, to tell her she is strange and beautiful and different, and that she could be so much more, that she could be revered and dreaded if she gave in, if she allowed its pressure to break and mold her. It would give her palaces and blessings, if only she went further then sight knew, if she walked in darkness of woods.

But she was Katarin, mundane and plain and like every other girl in village, and she wouldn’t trade it away for anything.

* * *

 

‘’You are kidding me!’’ Katarin shouted, directing her anger at her own hands, sky, fate, any gods unfortunate enough to be nearby, and that cursed well that swallowed up her distaff. She could already see wool, yellow and grey like her uncle’s wig, get tangled up, tied in smelly knots as it sank beneath, could almost see how wood would look like in day, week, month, as it warped and bent...

Old Nan would faint. Then she would wake up and tear off Katarin’s ears. A distaff was valuable, wool even more, and even if they had money to waste and clothes to burn she wouldn’t dream of allowing such nonsense. To lose something like that, when she was almost an adult, and what was she thinking, spinning at the well, she could have fallen inside! She had to fix it somehow, she had to get it back, maybe she could pull it up...

‘’Ahem. Excuse me, miss, but I noticed that you lost something, and wondered if...’’ It was lovely, gentle voice, as warm and soft as velvet, almost lyrical, innocent and weak as that of her youngest brothers. Sweet as sugar, voice came from mouth of emerald frog that hopped up next to Katarin, who remembered Old Nan’s anger, and her stories, and knew which was worse.

She picked up the heaviest stone she could find.

* * *

 

‘’Katarin, have you lost your mind? I can’t wear that to pottery fair!’’ Enora shouted at her eldest sister, giving her a surprised and disgusted look and gasp reserved only for degenerates and monsters, such as people who murdered calfs or burned down barns. Katarin felt almost ashamed.

‘’What is wrong with it? It is cute!’’ The dress was lovely yellow, with warm and soft petticoats, possessing neckline that was inviting but not indecent. It was easy to wash and comfortable to roll in grass, and hard to tear. The only fault Katarin could find was that along the rim there were unnecessary, sloppy images of lavender, elaborately embroidered. She never got around to cutting them off, because they weren’t that much of a problem and she couldn’t trust herself not to cut it evenly.

‘’Yes, and you wore it previous three summers! You want me to appear at the fair with that old hand-me-down, next to Poggam’s Mari?’’ Everybody wore hand-me-downs. It was way things went in villages with big families, a fact as natural as rain and the phases of moons.  As long as it didn’t have holes, smell badly or make neighbors look down on you it was enough. Nobody complained about that, never.

Except during the pottery fair. Then, everybody in village bought and prepared new things, or as new as possible, or brought out clothes otherwise only worn at weddings and funerals. For every village was known for some small festival, when they would bring out some product they usually only made in rare spare time, now brought proudly to stalls so everybody visiting from nearby villages would be envious and painfully part with money for sake of Lanillis’ creations as their own were ignored.

It was of course a time to feast and dance and play games and fight and most of all, sneer and look down on neighbors.

‘’Everybody will thank God that there are still some girls reasonable enough not to wear a circus tent when those idiots are coming, trying to steal our customers. And you could wear nothing but rags and you’d still look better than that rat. And don’t talk like that to Katarin, it was her favourite dress.’’ Their stepmother remarked, nodding to Katarin as she laid out Enora’s new cream dress.

‘’Mother! It’s not exactly polite to talk like that.’’ Katarin said to her stepmother, who chuckled and patted her across the head, as she sat down to fix Katarin’s braid.

‘’Maybe. But that girl wears flowers in her hair.’’  Katarin frowned and shook at thought. It looked disgusting, thistles and weeds woven in pale blonde hairs. She didn’t know what that girl was thinking at all.

‘’I don’t know how they allow her to do such silly things, she isn’t a child anymore. Your Old Nan wouldn’t stand if that happened in her house.’’ Her stepmother continued, combing Katarin’s brown hair and undoing knots.

‘’I don’t stand for this festival at all, and yet it is still held. Nobody cares for what people like me think... That _dance_ , what a shame! Disgusting!’’ Old Nan’s screechy, booming voice rang out from other side of garden, and everybody jumped in shock and blushed. They knew what happened after the dance was over, and what old people thought of that.

‘’Don’t listen to her. She talks a lot but my eldest brother was conceived during the dance. Or so my father claimed.’’ Chuckled Katarin’s grandfather, speaking in whisper of accused man, as he continued to polish shoes.

‘’I can’t see Old Nan doing stuff like that. It doesn’t seem like something she would ever do. Are you sure great-grandfather wasn’t just teasing her?’’ Enora asked, eyes squinted as she tried desperately to banish the thoughts grandfather’s words implied.

‘’And why not? They were young and having fun, and by fun I certainly don’t mean catching unicorns. Just wait until you get to that age, and you will deny you ever bothered with prettying up for it too.’’ And as Enora shouted and denied, Katarin thought she was blessed not to have ever had a brother with balls.

* * *

 

There were stories about Lanillis. Of course there were- stories are just rumors about people who passed on and whose names few bothered to remember. And as laws of creation demanded, smaller and simpler the place, more vicious and bitter the gossip. For centuries people remembered whose horse kicked whose cart, whose sheep munched whose pear tree.

Therefore, it made sense that nobody would forget the day when the prince, who was also the third son, rode in village. A tiny, wiry man. Weak and pallid, with face like rat and body more like cream cheese smashed in dust, with hands finer and fancier than that of any woman in village. A useless man, weaker then any boy in the village, unused to any sort of labor. Raised with servants waiting on him for everything. Stupid, lazy, arrogant, angry and spoiled, because he was third son and so would never wear a crown, knowing nothing of life and reality. Once news spread of a princess kept in tower by evil wizard he saw his chance, and set out on quest to save the sole heiress, on a mistreated horse unused to rough paths, and with no practical gear.

He arrived in village during pottery fair, smelly as old pig, clothes torn and muddy, demanding and threatening. People left their stalls to help him, gave him best beds and best food they had, for they were generous, and feared royal punishment. He laughed at them, complained, and yet wasted all food and drink, and dirtied floors. But girls were taken by his money, by his silk, by his honeyed tongue, and he dallied with them all as if they were toys, and unfortunately left before their fathers could hang him, letting his horse knock over and trample half of pottery they had already sold.

Old people bitterly recalled that story every few years, story passed down on them from their parents, story of rage and caution and exploited generosity, to serve as warning to youngers if mysterious strangers showed up and demanded hospitality (only when they were out of Old Nan’s earshot, for she had been a girl back then, and she never liked talking about youth and past, for she had seen all but the youngest of her children buried).

Katarin learnt additional lesson from story- what to do if some prince was stupid enough to show up in her village.

She learnt how to bury things very young, you see.

* * *

 

Once, when she was young and naive and didn’t realize how hungry and terrible stories were, Katarin wandered off the path, deep in woods. She left the road, paved and trampled by generations of feet, for a reason she couldn’t remember-perhaps because she was ready to prove she was brave to her peers, or didn’t know about the warnings, or she was just simply bored, or wanted to be spiteful, and deny orders of her elders.

So she went beyond road, through grass and weeds, between tress and shadows, in that strange place that exists inside every forest, in their hearts which are made out of darkness and patience. She got mud and green stains all over her dress, traversing through briars and aster, following a muddy stream of water, which may have been a river once long ago, listening to it’s babbling and frothing.

There she found it, in heart of woods, which reeked of decay unknown and life uncaring, where the Sun shone cold and cruel, and trees rose proud and fearless, for they knew no woodsman would come to chop them down. These woods could recall days long gone by, when they sprawled wild and untended, when they had no use but to exist and allow birds and squirrels to dwell among them.  Humans would never lay claim to these parts of forest, would never make something useful and helpful out of it. It would sooner burn then allow such fate to pass.

And there, in heart of woods, _it_ stood, bowing before a virgin girl.

They would tell you it is a white horse with horn. It isn’t, it never was, it was so so much more. It towered above Katarin, taller than the tallest draft horse, then bull, tall as an elephant, with body that seemed to be something between horse and goat and deer and so much more, as if it was their common ancestor, as if all these creatures were it’s prodigal, wasteful children. It was as thin and deadly as string of bow, and white as moonlight and snow, with a great, wickedly sharp horn of bone and pearl. It was a perfect body, a body no amount of luck and breeding could produce, perfect as all things were at beginning of life, shaped by His hands. A body that shone with it’s own inner light, like one of stars, such that Katarin couldn’t tear her eyes off it, yet it didn’t hurt, but caressed her, soft and gentle and cold and distant, as if that creature was more then just bone and blood, as if it was just shell for beauty and purity woven in cosmos at beginning of time.

(‘’ They still live in Garden, my children. Man has sinned and fallen, and he has tainted so many beasts, but not unicorns, not phoenixes, not others who still thrive in shadows and seas and starlit skies. They are pure and free and they remember when first dawn of first spring broke over world, and it was good.’’  Old Nan said to them, in her stories, which were always so much deeper and darker then of others, for she had decades to perfect them across generations, and Katarin knew that it was true, that this creature in front of her had never seen Eden yet belonged to it, remembered how dew glittered on Forbidden Tree just as she knew how to breathe and cry.)

It was real. She knew, she couldn’t hope it was the foolish imagination of little girl, a trick of light. Even when she forgot how strong it’s light shone, how great it’s footprints were on grass trampled by silver hooves, the sound of it’s breathing, the way it’s mane swayed in wind, she knew it was real.  She remembered how it had to lower its neck so it’s horn wouldn’t get mangled in crown of trees, how leaves tangled in it’s tail, how dark it’s shadow was, the smell that followed it, like molten metal finally cooling down in slag, and knew she could have never imagined the wonder and fear that she felt that day. No human could have come up with it, no artist or liar could have properly inspired such wonder and worry, just as even lines of greatest song couldn’t make skin burn or freeze.

And she would never forget what she realized when she looked in it’s eyes.

It was gentle and sweet as petals of snowdrops, and if she had taken out all that was kind and sweet and harmless from honey and sugar and sheep and butterflies and primroses and kittens and the laughing of newborn’s, and put it all together, she wouldn’t have found a result half as gentle and lovely as beast in front of her. And yet, it was still a beast, such that it made lions and hunting hounds seem like pets. It was wild and unrestrained and free, and there was no changing it, just as humans couldn’t become immortal. It was untamed, and it would remain so forever- sooner would men break lions and put snakes to useful work, than they would find a way to tame and train unicorn.

It would sooner break and burn then allow them to break it.

And so Katarin turned and ran away screaming, while it knelt waiting to be petted or stabbed, and she never regretted it, and never again walked in the heart of woods.

* * *

 

‘’They can be as beautiful as angels, and can be as cruel as demons, but they are neither. Theirs is third road, the bonny path, which leads out of parts of world God designed. For they have no place and home in it, and so they have no souls and will know no salvation, and are exempt from counting of good and evil, and don’t answer to laws of time and heavens.’’ It is most probably some sort of blasphemy, or would be in eyes of foreign priest, or bigger cities. But here in villages as small as this, such stories were common, old heathenry surviving and mingling with folk beliefs and Good Word, in something everybody accepted as truth though it wasn’t written down anywhere.

‘’We think we know all about them, but truth is that all of humanity knows barely the basics, and those may turn out untrue in several centuries. The Good Folk are alien and unknown to us, arriving from some place beyond space and time, sharing none of our qualities. Most of them never meet mortals, because they stay in their own homeland, obeying its rules and existing--for what they are can’t be called living, for what lives must die- to carry out tasks in it, whatever they may be. But some get curious and so they wander in our own world, and they glamour themselves in forms we can stand to bear without madness, so they clothe themselves in illusions of elements, bear masks of personalities, take upon themselves imitations of concepts. Like children, playing roles in pretending games to make us face them easier... Perhaps that is why so many are cruel, because we need to pay for that favor.’’ It is how Old Nan’s stories about Good Folk always start. She knows thousands of them, and never repeats even one.

‘’And so, long, long ago, when no river we know flowed and no mountain that stands now was even a pebble, before maybe even the Flood, two of Folk came to Earth, and fell in love with the ocean, and each other, and wanted to learn to imitate humans well. And they came to conclusion that the essence of humanity was to fight, and cycle of loss and winning, and pain one underwent, and change above all. But as immortals they couldn’t experience it, so they had to do with next best thing, which was constant  competition between two, upon rules that they had to use humans to trick each other into being set upon strange tasks, and cursed in other forms by their own magics (for they took out pieces of their being, and changed them in nets and wands and crystals, whichever best suited story they wanted to tell), and they called each other husband and wife, for such was their closeness.

And always the victor of their fight did some strange ill upon humanity, which it repaid by sending great fortune upon relatives of their victims, and keeping them alive even if a thousand years passed. And other was cursed and set upon a strange task where they couldn’t use magic for themselves, and funeral rites would be carried out, from any land-for Folk couldn’t  lie, but they can twist words just so, and thus they would tell their victims their spouse was buried, and mortal would think the other Fae was dead, and that they fell greatly in love with them and wanted to marry human, which was true, and which was why they cursed them, for ways of Good People’s marriage are far stranger then ours.’’ And Katarin gasped, less because of curses and more because of thought of affairs and somebody having several spouses, which was a strange thought to her, and upon which Old Nan grimaced and laughed, for she had lived long enough to know Fair Folk picked that up from mankind too.

‘’First of two was a Good Neighbor that took form of woman, near the isle of Lok, and was known by people there as Groac’h. She lived in place that was between all lakes and seas and rivers, and she was rich, oh yes, richer then any king, for all sunken treasures of the world belonged to her. Only way to her home was by her skiff, which was made from swan turned wooden and blue, that could dive beneath water and realms, to her home, a grand palace made of shells. Blue and green and pink and lilac and white, shading into each other until you could not tell where one colour ended and the other began, and so beautiful you could barely imagine even if you had seen all wonders of sea. Crystal staircases sang like woodland birds as you stepped in halls of pearls, and within were contained pools with all sorts of victims and fishes, and greatest food on earth, and around gardens with all flowers that grew beneath water, but made of diamonds. For all those things were worthless to Groac’h, but humans found them impressive, so she made her home so it would be pleasing to them.

She herself was so beautiful that you would forget all of your mortal life, and all who you loved once you laid eyes upon her. She had a face that was as pink and white as shells of her palace, and hair as black as murky depths of ocean and cleanest river in midnight, from which corals grew, and she had silken dress impossibly green, like stormy cold sea, or river full of reeds and frogs in summer. Only sometimes did she have tusks of walrus, and of course she could change in crone and man and and hobgoblin and princess and swan, as could all of Folk, and groagez like her were very fond of that trick, and she was mistress among her many sisters.

Mistress of elements and treasures, patroness of spinning and laundry, solitary yet overbearing, she was true contradiction, I tell you that! She was even more finicky and whimsical then most of her kind, but more understanding and sensitive too. She would warmly receive guests, and turn them in all sorts of things and fry them in her pan once they showed their greed for her treasure. She would go out and bother passing people until they felt they couldn’t breathe because of her demands, and then she would gift them most magical objects and help them become rich by their own work- to a miner she would show where silver-bearing lead laid, to a doctor she would teach how to cure plague, and to a spinning widow she would give tools that made the greatest thread and would never run out of it.

Second was one who- for now- took shape of man, and who was known as Korandon by humans. he lived in cave in seaside cliff under dolmen. In that cave, which stretched endlessly through memories of stone and futures of sand, and it led through thousand paths in endless labyrinth, where rivers that flow beneath soil brought him things of worth, and the treasures of underground were his, and whatever was lost in wells came to him. Only by ways of fog and thicket could you reach it, for it was in no place at Earth, or it may have been other form of Groac’h’s palace when he held control. Who can know after all?

He was a tiny dwarf, some said so small that he used cockchafers as horses, his head as bald as eggs though he had long beard as red as kelp of depths, and he was wrinkled as if he had lived through the deaths of a thousand stars, which was well as he was at least thrice as old, and as black as shining, perfectly polished onyx. He had the nicest suit in world, and the greatest shoes for he loved to dance around fountains, and none could look at him without feeling comfort and sympathy, even if he stabbed them.

He was a master at transforming others, could make a gem from a grain of dust, a hero out of cobweb. He was faster then lightning, and could see into the future. With breath he could send death unto man, and charm away your will and choice. He stole babies and left changelings in their places, and liked to make humans dance until they fell dead. He gave weapons to heroes so they could dethrone tyrants and kill monsters, and money to poor to last them lifetimes, and he warned travellers of his kind’s mischiefs (especially his wife’s) and bestowed blessings upon babies. The last I heard of him he is sitting on six stone eggs, and will remain there until they hatch, which will only happen once his wife is tricked by some other pawn.’’ She said at last, and Katarin always envied Old Nan her ability to talk so much yet keep it engaging, the way she acted out things from stories, how she changed her face and voice to terrify adults and children alike.

‘’They sound awful. Must be the worst marriage in the world.’’ said Katarin, for she was only a child, and prone to commenting on things and stating her opinion, and didn’t have it quite beaten out of her yet.

‘’They are honest, and respectful, and treat each other as equals. Better than most you will find.’’

* * *

 

 **‘’Oh, Miss Robertson! You are safe!’’**   It was a beautiful voice. It was almost the most beautiful thing she ever heard, utterly unique and unlike anything else, it was the sort of sound that inspired men to try to learn singing and made the best musicians give up. It was the softest and weakest sound she ever heard, and yet it rang with perfect clarity. It made her think of butterflies breaking free from cocoons, of spring wind in hair and of hay sticking to skirts of dancers, of dew on grass soon to be cut, of pearls falling on glass, of marbles rolling as children laughed.

She didn’t trust it. Nothing that beautiful and pure should exist, nothing that beautiful and clean could be real, even if it was around since before humanity came to be. It was impossible, it was far too good to be true, so much better and greater than what existed, than what was real, than what she lived with, and she feared it as much as it appreciated it, because she had no choice, because no human could deny it anymore then they could deny fact Sun shone, and she hated Them for it.

From clouds and mist it came, turning world softer and slower and paler with itself, gentle light and sweet air twisting around it, colours turned glazed and pastel, and everything felt fresh and new and lovely and exciting, as if this being had been there when world was newborn and just starting,  and it didn’t realize eons had passed and it had grown mature and simple and normal, or perhaps it did and hadn’t cared, because world was still so big and wide and wonderful and blissful,  and there was so much to explore, and it’s memories and feelings flowed out and reshaped world.

She knew that voice like that could only belong to Fae. Just as she knew that she really shouldn’t go near the woods, but she had berries to pick up for pies Mari and her stepmother were making, and she couldn’t confess to everything after so many years of fighting against magic (well, not many years, but her whole life, and it was still enough, and she hadn’t seen much magic, and she always hoped her strange ability would go away someday).

And she knew that she should ignore cries of poor eyeless kitten, even if it was begging, because she had better things to do, and the kitten was far too well groomed and of sound words to be normal, and it laid on coat of white feathers. Katarin should have avoided it. But it was small and hurt and scared and asking for help, and Katarin was far too full of guilt and good manners to let it bleed away in dirt, especially when she knew that would disappoint her little siblings, if they ever heard (farm children were unsentimental about deaths of chickens and cows and pigs, but kittens and dogs were another story entirely) and anger Old Nan.

(And she preferred not to think on the fact that kitten thrice called out to her and begged her to help it by power of names of _Father, Christ and Holy Spirit, and Holy Virgin, and all Apostles_ , and she didn’t want to know how and from whom cat learnt of religion and theology, just as she didn’t want to deal with possibility of having to explain Saint Peter why she ignored such a plea once her time was up).

And now she was here, holding kitten while a Fae floated to her, as if it was gliding through water. It was lean and slender, toned and powerful body, pale and fair, as if it was made of misty clouds and ground sugar, shot through with undertones of pastel purple and pink and gold, like a sunset, with opaque, long hair seemingly made of pearls, covered in glittering, jewel-like dust. Katarin could almost see thin bones under impenetrable skin, and its long neck shifted and arched in ways that shouldn’t be possible for a human. It had powdery, rosy cheeks, thin lips and aquiline nose, and eyes all golden and black, without soul or feeling inside.

It wore nothing, nothing at all, and gazed reverently at cloak of white feathers, as if from swan, and it was very obviously _not_ a maiden.

 **‘’You shouldn’t wander off like that again! Imagine if you didn’t end up in such a peaceful century or galaxy! And you could seriously harm local bird populations, you know!’’** It had a smooth face. It was very beautiful, even if it’s voice hissed and honked, and its lips were orange. It seemed strong too, far stronger and taller than any lads in the village, and far prettier and elegant then any girl Katarin knew.

She thought of baker’s son, and realized he wasn’t that ugly. Just different, and no lesser man for that.

 **‘’You are very sweet for helping her, my sister would have my head if I lost her!’’** It talked fast and quiet, and smiled widely, mouth full of tiny round teeth, and Katarin got impression it’s words were literal. Its beauty paralyzed her, even as manners fought to surface and tried to say, it was no trouble. It took cloak and put it on itself, and it didn’t mention it, but Katarin was sure that if it could, it would have cried, given how deep it bowed.

 **‘’Oh, of course you have amazing manners and are so nice-you get one medium-to large favor for this you know? Bye, have nice day.’’** And then it was gone, and Katarin certainly didn’t feel assurance settle around her like warm cloak, nor did she think world felt really dull and ugly and sharp.

* * *

 

Lanillis didn’t like strangers.

Lanillis was the sort of place where leaving family home was tantamount to high treason at best. Anybody willing to leave their family, and land that provided life for generations that tended her (unless they were called to war, fair or chased out by plague) was either lacking in brains, reason or moral development, and of course therefore utterly unwelcome in Lanillis, which raised honest and proper children.

Worse yet was that travelers always brought strangeness with them. Strange ideas and customs and ways of speech, which were particularly dangerous when it came to tainting minds of youths. Particularly dangerous were ones who were travelers by nature and trade, and thought such way delightful. In some ways they were worse than hailstorms (girls were especially warned about how those men might find it fun to seduce them and ruin their reputations, talking about great love while seeing just a chance for passing fun in dumb village girls).

Katarin herself feared and prepared for the day when the prince would come.

Thus around whole Brittany it was known that Lanillis didn’t like visitors, not even for their money, and that there was only one house willing to host them, for there was no tavern in town. And that one house was Katarin’s, for her Old Nan may have had tongue of rusted nails and venomous thorns, and she may have been bedridden for at least ten years, but under that thick shell hid a warm and caring heart, or at least a burning and desperate madness that refused to be improper and impolite- and laws of hospitality were oldest and most rigorous.

Their fellow villagers complained about it before, of course.  But Old Nan was deadlier than a sword and had memory longer than the horizon, and had reigned as village’s éminence grise for longer then any living creature in the region could recall, and while no amount of pressure and insistence could get whole village to follow that particular requirement of proper behaviour (for even most dogmatic mind refused what it didn’t like), neither could any force on heaven or earth change Old Nan’s mind.

Thus, this week Katarin and her family were hosts to poor Irish crone, and even the most horrible and prejudiced people in village (who were, according to Katarin’s family, Poggams, because of course) couldn’t deny that poor old woman would die if she wasn’t helped. It was a pure miracle how she survived this far, for she made Old Nan seem like a rosy little girl. Her skin was folded and roughened up in way that made rotten old leather seem smooth, and had undertones of green and yellow and grey. There were great bags under her eyes, purple as frostbite, and her lips, covered in dried spit, constantly wobbled. Her head resembled a mutated potato, covered with few wisps of spiderweb that barely passed for hair, the crown of her head wrinkled and bare, stretched over misshapen skull. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely hold anything with her fingers, and were covered in seemingly more spots then there were stars in sky. And the less said about state of her clothing, the better.

 She was nice, if a pathetic old woman. She shivered and stumbled as she walked, and her neck hung low as if it would snap any moment, and her words were so slow and her voice so weak that none could stand talking to her but Old Nan (who, Katarin dared to think, listened less out of politeness, and more out of fascination with somebody who was even older then her). But that was all right, for nobody really wanted to talk with strange woman, and even if she didn’t help around house, at least she didn’t eat much.

On third day of woman’s stay, Katarin passed by her rooms. Well, to be honest, she passed by them every day, because it wasn’t a big house, and there was always some work to do, but this was perhaps the first time she truly registered her. The poor old woman sat on edge of bed, sheets mostly undisturbed, as if she was afraid of sleeping in them, or as if she was so light she couldn’t even wrinkle cloth. In her hands she held an ancient wooden comb, which missed half of its teeth, and her hand struggled and shook as she dragged it through remnants of her hair, each move slow and laborious, for her hair was more fragile than dreams, and a wrong tug could pull it all out.

It hurt to watch. Watching sick puppies be put down would be less pitiable than this.  It was useless and stupid to comb her hair, when there were barely two locks of it, when she would likely go bald in a month. And yet, the woman tried, combing her hairs and mumbling, more like coughing, some old, sad songs that sounded like the screeching of owls.

And yet, she combs it. Katarin remembers her Old Nan, scowling at her, telling her that people as old as her have reasons for everything, and if they hang on something silly it is because that is only way to hang on memories everybody else has forgotten.

‘’Do you need help, madam?’’ She enters and asks, and the old woman tenses and flinches like rabbit attacked by fox, and tries to deny her, but Katarin is insistent. And thus girl sits on edge of bed, takes ancient comb from hands of crone that smells of dust and exhaustion, and combs her hair, slowly and carefully.

She feels cold, and sombre. Woman is small and crooked thing, more made of woollen shawls and scarfs than flesh, stands like rotten, twisted tree. Her eyes are constantly red and bloodshot, as if she is always crying, and she has a look frozen on her face, that look demented old women have on funerals of the last relative willing to care for them. Katarin is almost scared to touch her, for fear of where this beggar had been, of picking up some illness, yet Old Nan’s disapproving face swims in her thoughts, rambling about manners and proper behaviour, with necessary implication that disrespect of elderly brings swinging of cane.

‘ _’Your efforts are appreciated. It is wonderful work. And you had been so kind.’_ ’ And Katarin freezes. Crone didn’t open her mouth, yet she heard her voice, a voice that was screeching of ravens over battlefields, a murmur of autumn leaves over ancient grave, a chisel marking name and dates upon gravestones, the chough of dying man, the wail of mother finding stillborn in her arms. It drove through her mind, crushing any resistance she might have had. It echoed in her bones, brought ugly tears and snot to her face. It pierced her very soul.

The woman flew up. At least, that was only explanation. Katarin saw nothing, no movement, not a twitch of muscle, yet suddenly crone was in the air and above her and facing her, as if she had always been there, as if time and space had been remade around her.  And then, she started changing.

It made a unicorn seem boring and normal and plain. It made Katarin feel as if before she saw nothing but illusion, a stupid rumour that tired mind conjured up, and only now Katarin saw the woman in truth. She was so much more, so much fuller then anything she ever saw. It made her feel as if Katarin, her family, this room, her whole world, even a unicorn was nothing but paper dolls of low quality, and only this woman was a real, actual person. It felt as if world would break trying to contain her.

She stretched, impossibly tall and thin. Her face turned bone white and gaunt and ageless, such that Katarin didn’t know whether she was looking at crone or girl, and her eyes had no eyelids or eyebrows, and were colourless and empty, lacking something, some spark or sign she saw everywhere before and didn’t realize it ( _soul, soul, soul_ , cried something inside her bones and blood, some ancient voice humans almost could forget, something that had been dead and scared before they had found flame and cave). Blood and tears flowed down from them, in an endless river.

Her hair was made of winds and thunderclouds, and crowned with fading stars of morning and last traces of sunset, and dead twigs and crushed bones of birds and shells of snails and lobsters.  It was held by comb of silver and lighting, and it hurt to look upon it, for it felt her own hands would lurch themselves off her body to try to claim it. She was wrapped in mourning clothes-all of them, from across thousands and thousands years, all mourning clothes anybody, any woman had ever worn in the countless generations of a single family stretching back to Eve herself, and it should have been a mess but it wasn’t, they were stitched up in a perfect harmony, and mist and fog and bogs and ferns decorated them.

She was translucent. See-through, like a mirage of smoke and shadow, like glistening trail of slug, like tears and skin stretched too tight, and all over her body Katarin could see names, could see dates and locations and descriptions and faces, and they were all family, they were one unbroken chain of ancestors stretching from the beginning of mankind to now, and they were all gone and crushed into dust, and they were all nobody, and this creature would remember them forever, would remember the smell of their hair and tears spilled in summer night and dreams that laid unfulfilled even when all stars have gone out.

‘’ _You didn’t have to do that. Nothing horrible would have befallen that single poor woman if you didn’t help her. And yet you did, moved by simple human pity and kindness_.’’ She was the most terrible and beautiful thing Katarin had ever known. She knelt, lowered herself as if before angel of Lord, and all complaints and fears and disgust she would have thrown at magic were forgotten by dread and wonder, for she looked at this creature and knew that she was nothing but a shadow of dust, and that this thing had seen the first life wither and would cry for the last to go.

 _‘’Such hospitality requires appropriate payment. I grant you this bell - should you or any who you love be in trouble, it will warn you of it. And if you allow me, I will mourn for you when your time comes._ ’’ The bell appeared in Katarin’s hand, small and light and smelling like dried out paint, seemingly made of cheap tin, and Katarin would later say it was shock and speed that prevented her from tossing back gift and laughing in the Fae’s face, yet its presence stripped any lie and illusion from her, and she could just nod and gasp, for every human wants to believe they will be forever missed once they pass away.

And with sad smile and bow, the banshee was gone, with as much grandeur and effect as the death of a butterfly, and Katarin would always later claim that she said good riddance, and tears flowed down her cheeks when she would remember how she found herself in a plain, normal room, not an echo of magic remaining.

* * *

 

The cursed bell never shut up.

Every single moment of day it rang without moving, a dull and aching sound, low and quiet and omnipresent, choking and annoying noise that sounded like some old and sick hen that was half-delirious and starving. Nobody else heard it, which Katarin didn’t know if it was a blessing or curse.

Everybody seemed to think woman had just packed up and left, after saying goodbye to the family (her parents grumbled that she hadn’t even paid them, and Katarin would have agreed if Old Nan didn’t slap them over heads with her stick. “You want that poor old biddy to be paying you for the most meagre human hospitality? Should I too start paying rent now, heh?’’ Katarin was torn between thinking that a Fae should have been more than capable of giving them great wealth, and also thinking that having anything of faery origin in house was worse than if their farm burned down). She didn’t know if it that was creature’s magic, implanting fake memories, or if it was the human mind, filling in the gaps.

She knew what was happening, oh yes. The fairy woman hadn’t lied, but they always twisted their words and meanings. Trouble! But not what sort of trouble, oh no. The bell was probably registering mud splattered over dress and annoying sweating as trouble too. And, as she sincerely doubted fairies worked honest and hard to earn their food, human work probably seemed horrible to them. bah! Who gave them the right, she asked, to go around and bestow useless, unasked for gifts, to reward people for kindness-how she hated that part of stories, where somebody got an estate or crown or whatever just because they were nice to random old beggar. It made no sense, just because somebody let a rabbit out of trap didn’t mean they were fit to manage the economy and laws of a whole kingdom. And she would like to see what sort of records those creatures kept, what sort of bank dictated which enchantment was fit for which stupid, lazy favor. If they could turn rags into silk and mice into monsters then they certainly didn’t need help with combing hair, only bothering poor working people!

(She would always deny tears that sprang to her eyes when she thought of the beautiful and terrible thing in front of her).

The bell changed it’s tone when sickness came to village. It was no ordinary illness, brought on by bad air and water, by spoiled food or stranger coming to village. Like a slow, tired fog it spread over them all, each house losing cow, or child, with more and more victims popping up each week. Nobody knew what to do with them, for they turned weak and pale, gaunt and silent, sleeping and shivering. They tried all medicines and remedies, yet nothing helped.  People and animals alike turned cold and laid down, trapped between life and death, growing thin and blue in face.

The bell hissed since the first night, when a single dog got sick. They put it down, but illness spread, and bell continued to hiss, a cautious, hazy sound, like scrapping of nails on wooden floors, like plea for help, something gasping and trembling as it was being torn apart. And nobody could hear it but her.

It was useless, she would have argued if anybody knew and asked. After all, what need did she have of magic when she was in full possession of her eyes and senses? She could see there was some sort of plague upon them on her own, no spells or miracles necessary, thank you very much. All it did was to prevent her from sleeping well.

And that saved Enora’s life. The bell screamed one night, shouting like child beaten with iron rods heated red as blood, and it tore Katarin out of deepest sleep, woke her so she would find a dark, mutilated shape hanging by her sister’s bed, a man whose flesh had been turned from inside out.

It resembled a unicorn, in sense that Katarin knew it wasn’t just a creature of flesh and bone. There was magic inside it, twisted and awful and horrible (well, even more then usual sort), a curse sunk so deep that it became one with skin and insides, made it possible for that creature to walk, breathe, exist. It wasn’t like Fae, who were something bigger and purer than stone and sky and sun and starlight. It was still mortal and fallible, but it existed to obey some strange rules that dictated its kind. It had nature and purpose that obeyed no natural law, that made it seek out humans and feast on them.

And it was lesser then unicorn, for Katarin knew, in a way only a heroine or witch can know, that once upon a time, perhaps not even long ago, this thing was human. It was a man once, before magic got hold of it and perverted it, changed it in something that wasn’t even person anymore, just borrowing body of one, making it go and climb in people’s houses and sink its fangs in throats and ...

‘’No you don’t, you monster!’’ Katarin shouted, and it turned it’s head to her, eyes wide and slimy and yellow as the moustache of her uncle who liked smoking bit too much, teeth sharp and grey as pebbles that got stuck in horseshoes and itched and created ulcers, it’s flesh twisted and stretched, skin like that of bat, and it was all red and black like rotting meat and smelled like kidney left out in sun during summer, and she reached for pillow, glass, show, something, anything to throw and Enora was waking and crying and monster stretched it’s maw...

And Katarin rose her bell. Or better yet, the bell raised her hand. It filled her with power, with melody, with weight of thousand generations and a hundred thousand gravestones, and it sang a song of weeping and chanting, and she was frozen and burning, and she felt as fresh and free as she did upon breathing in the first soft wind of fall and eating the first harvested apples and plums, and in her mouth was taste of dust and chestnuts. Mist swirled around her, grey and opaque, and she felt some cold, alien, almost-rage, some detached indignation at very sight of this thing, for she knew it, she knew what it was, and how dare it deny death and grasp onto living. It was nothing but a parasite, it was some pathetic human idiot who couldn’t accept such a fundamental fact of its own existence, so it drowned in hatred and swallowed the lifeblood of others and that couldn’t be allowed. Dead deserved respect and living chance, and so she thrust the bell, or was thrust by it, and thousand pale white dawns struck out, thousand prayers rang out, and the vampire screamed and fled, scurrying out like some dark, thick cloud of smoke out of window, and Enora fell and Katarin hugged her and cried and screamed and summoned her whole family to room, and two of them told them what happened ( thankfully, Enora didn’t remember the bell, and Katarin hid it).

In the morning, men set out to search graves, and Katarin followed them. And the bell rung near Poor Paul’s grave, who was lonely and bitter soul, who lost his whole family years ago and hated the whole village for having theirs, so it made sense he couldn’t have rest, and she made up some story how now she remembered what vampire looked like.

And they dug out grave, and found Poor Paul with cheeks ruddy and hair growing even if he had been buried months ago, and they called Old Nan, who told them all the ways to dispose of vampire, slowly, for the news was hard on her, and she crossed herself once they cut off the head, and it was the end of it.

She felt almost sorry for him, or the thing that became him, for he was so lonely and there was nobody but her left to rebury him, stake and salt and all, and Old Nan told her that for somebody to crawl out of grave you needed hatred and sorrow greater then what a living heart or cold earth could contain. But she didn’t feel sorry for him a lot, for he was still a monster in death and grumpy miser in life, and he killed cattle and almost took her sister.

The bell stopped ringing after they burned the decapitated head, which whined the whole time. And so Katarin decided against throwing bell down the well, for now.

* * *

 

‘’Can you believe it?’’ Her stepmother chuckled, nine months after the pottery fair, while she was spinning with her friends. For that was main reason women got together to spin, aside from it being healthy alternative to drinking in bar, to gossip- how their neighbors fed pigs all wrong, how a woman from the neighboring village had terrible shoes, how the baker was very unfortunate because his son had a face as smooth as a girl’s, how their mothers-in-law ate the wrong fruit and got sick and dirty...

‘’Always behaved as if their Mari is bigger saint than Holy Virgin, and look at her now!’’ Laughed a butcher’s wife, her graying hair falling over warm almond eyes.

‘’That is what you get when you are being all snotty.  Her mam told me once none of our boys were good enough for their sweet Mari, and now- well, I think one was, at least, but she is no good for any anymore.’’ Said the cheesemaker, who had puffy cheeks and fingers as fat and thick as sausages.

‘’I believe they said the girl made mistake! Hah, can you believe it? Claim she is in that age when she is being foolish and romantic and carried off by lust. Well, our Katarin is twenty-five too and she is bringing no bastards home.’’ Katarin’s stepmother rolled her eyes. It was all down to parents, really. Katarin didn’t want husband yet, so they didn’t pressure her. If Mari wanted one they should have let her have him, and not try to use her dim head.

‘’I heard that she wanted to threaten the father, but he laughed her off.’’ Said the shepherd’s wife, who had as many freckles as there were stars in sky.

‘’Bah! As if she knows which one did it. I tell you, she got drunk at the fair and buggered with some idiot from other villages, certainly.’’ Said the headman’s wife, who lived in a house that had servants and two floors, and had gold teeth, and disowned her own younger sister after the girl made the same mistake as Poggam’s Mari.

‘’Enough! What sort of talk is that, eh?’’ Old Nan’s voice cut across house, and all women jumped and crossed themselves.

‘’Old Nan, we didn’t mean anything bad, we just...’’ Started Katarin’s stepmother, for Old Nan had more respect for worms that ate up cabbage than gossipers.

‘’You are daring to speak such idiocy in my house! Well, I won’t allow it! Don’t make me come down. There will be no badmouthing of poor girls while I live!’’ And half of the women started praying, for Old Nan may have been bedridden for longer then Katarin could remember, but the whole village dreaded that someday something would set her off to rise and harass village on their improper manners again. True, nobody could remember properly how many decades ago that happened, but nobody could remember just how old the crone was either.

‘’Poor girl.  Bah, poor girls don’t go doing that around at fairs, then threatening upstanding young men.’’ Muttered the headman’s wife, and curled her lips so much her golden tooth showed.

‘’Upstanding young men! Ha!  Upstanding young men take responsibility for their actions, and don’t let girls raise their sons on their own. ‘’ The headman’s wife tensed at this, and fire flamed in her eyes, and she spoke even as her friends tried to shut her up.

‘’And how would that be his responsibility?  He wasn’t the one who gave birth to a bastard, I can be sure of that. Girls like that just look how to use others, and steal family’s money. They should be lashed.’’ She spoke with fervor, and Katarin remembered how at the dance they could find neither Mari nor the headman’s son.

‘’And I’m sure she couldn’t conceive on her own! If men want fun they have to take responsibility for consequences, and if not they should be gelded!’’ And that was the last word, for Old Nan always had the last word, and the headman’s wife sat down shaking in her distress.

‘’Katarin, go to the woods. We need more mushrooms, for soup and pigs!’’ Rang out Old Nan’s voice, for she kept inventory of all tasks and property on their farm in her always sharp mind.

‘’Yes, Old Nan.’’ She said and set out, knowing that not even hellhounds would stop her, for nothing in the woods could be as dangerous as angry Old Nan, and it was day so no monster would trouble her (still she took the bell). Everybody knew that monsters loved night, just as Fae loved twilight, and noon was no time for them, for only in shadows and under moonlight did their wicked magic have hold.

So she walked out, and kept her legs steady and calm even as she approached the woods, and thought not of unicorns and magic, but instead said hi to all neighbors and friends, and only glanced at Poggam’s Mari, who sat alone near the well as others giggled at her, and held her son in her arms. Katarin hoped Mari didn’t see her.

She kept to safe places, to reaches and borders of the woods. She didn’t go to the depths, or leave the path. She knew better. She had too much of adventure and magic lately, and she wouldn’t go around encouraging it. And walking off the path was essentially begging for all sorts of monsters and sorcerers to come crawling after you, or worse--set you off on the quest!

So she gathered mushrooms, and started to leave, when she heard a scream.

It wasn’t true screaming, to be honest. It was that pathetic, horrible thing that came after it, after your throat turned dry and raw as sand, after you lost all strength and it seemed that you would spit out your tongue, that your saliva has solidified from how thirsty you were. It was a tattered, poor sound, barely more than a breath. A dying call for help, when it seemed all hope was snuffed out, words and murmurs coming out of mouth by force of habit, gained over time uncountable.

It was a human voice. She knew that.  Animal voices all sounded same, no matter the emotion or state or species, and they all echoed in her skull. This voice, she could almost ignore. And the bell didn’t ring, which meant it was stranger, somebody stupid enough to leave their home and get lost in dangerous woods... Maybe that stranger would die and nobody would find them, and if they did it wouldn’t be tied to Katarin, and nobody would blame her for not losing time and risking herself to help stranger, she did nothing wrong...

 _‘’No, no, no.’’_ Echoed Old Nan’s voice in her head, through years and memories, of hundred instances when people ignored bullying, the abuse, the neglect of children and women and elderly, because this was a nice village, with proper people, and such things didn’t happen here, everybody knew that.

 _‘’ You did nothing at all, and that was wrong. You could have helped, you could have shown compassion, but you refused because you feared effort, was bored at thought of having to deal with sad hurt person before they would thank you.’’_ She would say, and Katarin saw decades of suffering in her eyes, saw people only she remembered though their names were known by their descendants, and only she remained, and Katarin saw all these daughters and wives and grandmothers reflected in Old Nan’s eyes. So she set off and followed the pleas, because somebody had to.  Because you could help, because even if you failed you tried. Anything else made you a conspirator of sorts. Anything else meant you witnessed wrongdoing and failed to do anything, and you might have just as well danced over victim’s grave that way.

So she ran (carrying the mushrooms with her, of course, because she could never quite put a stop to that practical part of her brain, though of course that part of brain turned on itself and started to whine how the basket slowed her down and mushrooms could get damaged in whatever danger she was running into, and oh sweet God why couldn’t she have a simple, lazy brain), propelled by good manners and morals distilled in her through generations of family that lived respectfully and tried to be good to everybody who deserved it, followed the spirit of the Good Book and was courteous even to Poggams, and had nearly a century worth of living up to Old Nan’s standards. Altruism gave her strength and panic gave her speed, and she dashed off the road, deep into the woods.

It seemed that shadows wavered and trembled, that sunlight shied away and broke, that time dragged on and tried to escape, that  branches and roots twisted and begged her to stop, that animals cried and begged her to turn away (but there were no words, for there was only fear, pure and flickering and  screaming, and same fear swelled up in her, filled her bones, for it was something every thing that breathed and had flesh knew, something that had been part of them since before stars were set in sky),  but Katarin ignored it, because she had to go on, because somebody was in trouble and it was her duty to help, because somebody had to, even if it meant venturing in the darkness and the heart of woods.

So she followed the weak voice, and weaker yet breathing, until she came to a small clearing in the woods, where the light was gentle and air smelled pleasant. There were wildflowers nearby, and bushes with berries, and birds chirped. It was sweet, nice place where you could lay down and dream beautiful dreams. It was the sort of place that could only exist in romantic, youthful fantasy. She didn’t trust it a bit.

And there, in the center of clearing, stood a stone, tall and thin and gray monolith, and inside it was a girl.  She seemed to be of Katarin’s age, in clothes that were probably fashionable and pretty and expensive once, and she wasn’t stunningly beautiful but she was certainly not plain, for she had a lovely nose and her blonde hair had a rare sheen to it, and she was being absorbed by stone.

Half of her back and both her hands and legs were gone already, her flesh and bone melted in earth, and layer of stone formed over parts still free, and her whole body was twisted and hanging like a broken doll. Katarin knew that the only reason poor girl didn’t have broken neck, the only reason she was still living, was because some wicked magic made it possible for her to live, to suffer, because some awful thing, some horrible witch or stupid fairy or whatever wanted somebody to torment for some inane reason.

The girl’s lips trembled as her voice struggled to come out (and Katarin wanted to slap herself, because that practical side of her mind wondered how much feeling her body lost, how did sensation occur and transfer in parts covered, transformed in stone, and whether her internal organs were being transformed too, and those were awful thoughts to think, and useless, even if some would find them reasonable and not stupid), and there were cold tears in her eyes. And her eyes were red, red as if all the blood vessels had popped, and yet they were calm, detached, as if she was dreaming, as if she has been completely resigned to her fate.

For a moment Katarin stopped and wavered. For a moment she considered running away, leaving the girl behind, and forgetting about everything, because it was magic and magic was mess and horrible thing, and it drew you in danger and tales and led you away from home, and she lasted this long without getting (badly) tangled in something like that. And then she thought of girl’s eyes, and stone over her flesh, and she thought of rage that filled her whenever she heard stories about curses put on humans for stupid reasons, and of how disappointed Old Nan would be, and she stepped forward...

And the world changed.

_It was dark, like the space between galaxies, and it shimmered like stars.  It was as small as thimble and she had never been so comfortable, and it was bigger then universe thrice over and it suffocated her. She was feeling so cold that she wondered why rime and frost didn’t cover her, and she was so hot she wondered why her flesh didn’t melt off. She was floating and sinking. She was buried and growing. She was in every place in world. She was nowhere. She was above and down. She was up and below. She was left at east, and right at west. She was nobody. She was the most important person in world. She was dying. She was being born. She changed. She would never be anything else. She was dust. She was eternal. She laughed and cried. She screamed and smiled._

_It should have broken her. It should have driven her so mad her soul would have splintered. And yet, she had never felt so much clarity. She had never felt so wonderful, so secure, as if every lie in world had been severed, as if now she glimpsed a truth of all things.  She was enlightened, ascended, filled up by something greater and older and better then her, something so much more than anything else._

_‘’ TRULY, _

**_admirable_ **

_ EFFORT _ _._

**_but_ **

_ IMPOSSIBLE _ _,_

_**dear**.’’ _

_It was voice(s), which were everything and so much more. They shouted, and they were silent. It was one, and infinite. It was most beautiful and horrible thing ever. It was high and low, it sang and screeched, they begged and ordered, they joked and were serious.  Strong and weak, soft and hard, cold and passionate, mocking and comforting, it is the most incredible thing ever, they are master-pieces of musical beauty neither mortals nor gods will approach. It was everywhere and nowhere, they were inside and all around her, it brought her to knees, they raised her up above anything else._

_And then owner of voice came to be in front of her, behind her, or maybe It was always there at the same time.  It was tinier than a thumb and taller than mountains, It shone so bright that the Sun looked pale next to It, and It had universes worth of dark shadows as cloak. Voice didn’t belong It, because It was It, because every sound and movement and form it made was but emanation of It, a higher being that lessened itself so you could try to converse with it, so you could try to pretend to understand it._

_You gaze upon perfection. It has lessened itself, made itself so much weaker so you could be free, so you could remain free though that fate is so much less beautiful then belonging to It, then letting adulation and adoration fill you up and become your purpose.  It is near and It is far, and you can’t be sure of anything because it is paradoxes exploding and oxymorons remaining calm, because everything of all worlds and outside of them is contained within it and ascended, elevated, what is beautiful becomes striking and terribly, what is ugly becomes holy and enthralling, what is mundane becomes mysterious and lovely._

_Actually, you realize you can be sure of one thing. Probably more, but this is first that will come to your poor, simple mortal brain, which is mess of soggy meat and fat and salt and electric impulses and that ineffable spark that drives humans- It is most ancient thing that ever was. It is First. before time and before things that came before time, before any, it had dwelled and waited, older then Eldest Gods and nothingness itself, older then chaos and order, before any spirit or soul or angel or demon, before fate and space, It had been, and it dwelled before existence in state that wasn’t state without amount or loneliness, without numbers or forms, and It had not been created by any God._

_It comes to you in more solid, limited form, that still feels like best and worst thing that will ever happen to you, as something alien and unknown that will never belong to this world It predates. It comes as woman who is seemingly more statue then being, dressed in simple blue tunic, with skin  colour of marble, hair of ribs, nails of teeth, inside of mouth of ice, and empty, soulless, inhuman mouth of pearls, lacking that spark that exists inside everything but Gentry, and this thing was to Fair Folk what they were to animals ( because animals can’t be cunning and tricky but are so much wiser and more observant in some areas, and may not have epic tales but  always know how to behave, and they don’t hate Folk but avoid them, and anyway who knows what stories beasts tell), with wings of broken glass upon It’s back._

_Half of It’s body was as in beautiful maiden, kind that posed for most talented artists, and other half as in ancient crone, that reminded everybody of lovely and knotted weeping willow. It had innocence of sweet child and wisdom of experienced sage around it. It had care of devoted mother, and brutality of unstoppable huntress. It had bearing of highest queen and held itself as mysteriously as strangest sorceress. It was as humble as most loyal priestess, and as amazing as greatest goddess._

_It held simple wand in hand, a thin white stick with crumbling blue elfshot at top, dainty and deadly._

_‘’ **welcome** , _

_ MY  _

**_dear_ ** _._

_ HOW _

_**are**_

_ YOU _ _?””_

_You don’t need to speak. It knows already what is inside your heart. And blinded by beauty, and assured by something more ancient then fear that you won’t be harmed, you dare ask for it’s name._

_‘’ **I**_

_ HAVE _

**_none_ ** _._

_ I  _

**_have_ **

_ TITLES _ _.’’_

_And you know, assured without words, for It  speaks to your heart, with compassion no thing of Faery should feel, compassion that makes even that of Old Nan pale, that it doesn’t care to be insulted, but that you should never do so to others of it’s kind, and you know, through this perfect means of communication that must have been how Adam and Eve talked in Eden, that it has countless titles and that whatever you sue is acceptable, yes even worst insults, but you know, in way surer than you know to breathe, that only one truly applies best._

_The Fairy Godmother._

_Rage swells up inside you, for It left you as you were, and you hate it for that, because you desire, you yearn, you ache to shed your humanity to become It’s worshipper, but It refuses, It lets you remain a person, when you could be so much better so much more useful adoring it for eternity, and you use that wrath to rage for girl that is becoming stone, demanding to know  what she did to deserve such cruel fate (to deserve such attention)._

_‘’ SHE_

**_was_ **

_ CRUEL.  _

**_she_ **

_ WAS _

**_stepsister.’’_ **

_Oh, how you rage then.  Because you know that story, that first story you heard, that most ancient story, and oh how you hate it, how that hatred defines you, little Katarin of Lanillis, great-granddaughter of Old Nan, how it forms the core of you. It has everything you hate in all stories- prince and helpless maiden, nonsense and fairies, and above all, senseless reward. So, a girl has to clean, so what? So do you, and all your sisters and even brothers when they are small, and worse- well, not worse, but harder. What a tragedy, what a poor girl! She deserves a miracle, a prince, a life of laziness and comfort for enduring such trial! And what about the thousand Katarins over the world, who would never get chance to wear dresses of gold and silver and have servants,  that will forever be making cheese and collecting mushrooms, though most of them may not want it any different, but what matters is that they didn’t have chance?  Because of what? because they weren’t pretty?_

_No, answers The First Godmother, and it is an admonishment but a gentle one.  Your complaint is fair but misdirected, and you know that in very essence of your soul. Story changes, but story is always same. Why should one girl work while others are spoiled? Why should one girl sleep in ashes?  Why should one girl be denied chances everybody has? Why should one girl bear mockery and abuse?_

_Why should one girl be treated as lesser in **her** own home?_

_That is what Stepsisters are all about. Being Stepsister and Stepmother doesn’t have to be literal, just as bitch isn’t always a female dog and ass a donkey.  It means abusing others, tormenting them because you can, because you think that makes you powerful, and it means looking away and refusing to help because it isn’t your problem, and that makes you conspirator. And if It could, Godmother would stop them all, would save every child and adult and elder going through that, would punish all monsters, but It has duties to Faery, and there is price for help, so It simply sets things in motion, to save those poor dears, to save children of ash and ember and cinder. To punish ones who harmed their hearts and minds and freedoms, who looked away and don’t regret it. And you know that, you know hatred and pain and guilt It would have felt if It could, you know compassion it manages somehow, impossibly, to feel, and you know torments this imprisoned girl put her stepsister to, wearing her laces and petticoats and umbrellas and gloves while her sister (with such brown hair and dull eyes) shoved snow from thresholds in rags without sleeves._

_You could have been mage, if you wanted, but you don’t, and it is all right. And there is always a price, so you will be given a warning and prophecy, as punishment for trying to interfere with Godmother’s justice, for kindness shown to stranger. You will have a daughter, and she will be heroine, and you will have granddaughter and she will be witch and sheep, and your great-granddaughter will be ash girl. And knowledge is there to warn you, and to carry burden of fact magic will never truly leave you._

_So you are given gift, free for you, for It has long since sworn to help ash-children however it can. A knife, small dull thing that can break any enchantment, even magic of lesser fae, which is quite big grasp given how powerful thing giving gift is, and how wider it’s perspective on power it is._

_And world is same again, and you are on path again, and you weep, because you know It loved you, that It loves all kind and good humans, and in you may push memories of dark yet shimmering world down, but in dreams you will always worship it._

Katarin walks away, drying her eyes, putting knife in pocket of her apron, and pretending not to notice mushrooms in her basket, so much bigger, so much healthier, and that she knows they aren’t magical.

She comes back to village, and finds Mari sitting near well, holding a crying baby as other giggle to her and avoid her, and for moment Katarin forgets Mari has pretty eyes or that she is Poggam, and then she remembers and wonders why that matters, and she notices how Mari shivers, and has bags under her eyes, and remembers how people talk about her, that her father threw her out.

So she sits next to her, and Mari tenses as if she expects to be slapped.

‘’He said we will marry. That he already has ring.’’ She says, so tired and angry, and bored, and Katarin winces.

‘’Do you need place to stay, for you and...’’ She doesn’t even know baby’s name, she realizes.

‘’Houarn. And no, we won’t impose, we have no money...’’ Houarn. Like her father, who threw her out on streets with baby (her mother cried, but did nothing, and all her cousins turned their head). It seems silly and far too generous to Katarin, but she says nothing, because it isn’t her place, and on other hand it might be lovely insult, to name child after living man- may he replace you soon.

‘’Nonsense. We won’t demand any sort of pay.’’ She says, and sees battle raging in Mari, hunger fighting against politeness, and hunger wins but barely. People gather and watch and gasp, buzzing like wasps all around them.

‘’You will let me make you all the cheese.’’ Says Mari with an authority Katarin doesn’t dare deny or impose on, and as they walk she makes note of how Mari’s clothes aren’t actually of finer quality than hers but just more colorful, and that there are callouses on her fingers, and that she has worse nails than Katarin, and really there is nothing wrong with how quiet and shy she is.  The whole house gasps when they enter and hear, but Katarin doesn’t care.

Old Nan smiles proudly.

* * *

 

Katarin keeps her promise, to the regret of her family, who would have tried to resist if Old Nan, who saw no point in filial loyalty and family pride in the face of cold hard facts, didn’t openly state that Mari’s cheese was better than all of theirs together.

And that couldn’t be allowed, no. Her relatives wouldn’t be rude, and wouldn’t disobey Old Nan’s command, so they took out their grievances against Mari in what was surely the most violent and polite war since dawn of time. They waged their battles in the kitchen and stable, in pigsty and pantry, and it seemed there was no end to it, and that when one side won other launched counterattack.

Mari made her cheese, and her stepmother made her beautiful jam. Mari sheared the sheep better then anybody, and so Enora spun wool better then Mari could ever hope to spin. Mari made Old Nan’s bed, and so Katarin’s aunts massaged old woman’s feet (Katarin was never sure whether her aunts and uncles were paternal or maternal ones, by blood or marriage, and she didn’t really care, on account that everybody was her family and so Old Nan’s servant). Mari watched over cows, so Katarin’s sisters watched over chickens.

It was amusing to watch, and honestly, Katarin benefited most from it, aside from Old Nan. After all, she was the one who brought Mari into their house, and while she could have suffered being on the receiving point of their bitterness, instead fate smiled on her, and as luck had it, her family competed to prove they were more useful to have around then Mari, who seemed insistent on repaying the kindness shown to her.

Plus, the Poggams were annoyed whenever they saw them together.

* * *

 

“Magic isn’t a simple thing, you know.” Said Old Nan, laying in her bed, stricken with fever. Katarin stood by her side, and though she knew it foolish, for Old Nan was strong and had defeated many a fever, fear grew in her like rot through old wet wood, for Old Nan was very old, and each fever brought fear to Katarin, that this one would take her.

‘’Of course.’’ Old Nan loved her stories, of saints and demons, of sorcerers and heroes, monsters and tricksters, love and justice, magic and fae. She knew thousands of stories, some ancient and some invented by her, and whenever fever struck her she would retell them, thinking small children were near her.

‘’Anybody can do it, but then anybody can can take a stick and drag it through dust. It doesn’t mean they can write a fantastic poem. But that is a start. If you are mortal, if you have flesh and life and faults, unlike angels and Gentle Folk, you can try to do magic, and the start is in your heart. Joy and sorrow, anger and love, and above all, hate and hope... Those feelings are providence of us who can think and ache and desire, and they allow us to change world. A mother who sees her child in danger can find strength to fight a knight to death. A dead man can crawl out of grave because his bitterness is too strong to let death claim him. Starving child can wish so much they turn dust in gold. But that is just a start. There is a process, a way to accomplish magic that requires learning and practice.’’  Old Nan said, and Katarin paid attention to her, because she was afraid of what would happen otherwise, and because she needed to notice any dangerous change, and because those words were so strange and unlike anything she heard or experienced.

‘’I thought that magic just...worked.  You wished and it happened.’’ It was nonsense, and that is why she hated it.  Things just appeared, were done without any effort. And there were things that just were, like her ability to understand animals. She didn’t have to earn it. She didn’t want to doubt Old Nan’s words, but that didn’t sound like her experience at all.

‘’Goodness, no. That is spirits and demons, angels and Gentle Folk. They are born of magic, or perhaps they make it, or maybe they are magic. Now, things like dragons and unicorns and dead, they have magic too, and it may seem they just need to wish for something to happen, but that isn’t true.  A fish breathes underwater, and it needs barely any effort, and it doesn’t know why it can do so, but there is still reason. Many people who have talent, or keep up craft for long enough develop certain gifts that seem to just happen randomly.  Seeing future, finding wells, talking to animals...’’ Katarin stilled for moment, but there was no danger, no need to worry. It was just one of Old Nan’s stories, telling most famous forms of magic from tales.

‘’But true magic is far more then wishing and hoping, ah. That is just fuel, but you need work for rest. Harsh work, harder than any in field or house, yes, don’t look like that at me. For whenever you reach for magic, you can’t be sure if your desire will be realized, nor at what price it shall come. And there are so many formulas and rules you need to follow. That is how they differ, because various users work in different ways. You have wizards, who are all about words and symbols, sigils drawn in sand, carved in bone, woven in cloth, spoken and sang. Any can do, though legends said that once there was language of magic, language that came from Eden, first of all. And there are witches, who are all about rituals and actions, dances under moonlight, red ribbons in particular pattern tied to doors, steel scissors cutting white bread, done and followed. There are many rituals, but it is said that the strongest were learnt from bargains with spirits. And there are mages, who are all about items and amulets, charms of rabbit’s foot, herbal potions, boots of seven miles, to bring and channel.  Anything can do, though items crafted by things such as Gentle Folk were said to be best, of course.’’ And Katarin was startled, and she shivered, and felt grateful and afraid, for now she at least had a name for what she was.

* * *

 

Silly Anatola was a poor old biddy who never married and had no children and was a distant relative to the Poggams, which meant they brought her food twice a week and fervently hoped she wouldn’t go out to market or for a walk so they wouldn’t have to interact with her in front of witnesses. Mari said that Anatola was absent-minded and clumsy, talked rarely and was very quiet if much grumpy (not as much as Old Nan, but then Old Nan was a category of her own), and an avid collector of maps, as well as fond of doodling on walls. Harmless but hard to take care off.

Then she died, and nobody stayed at funeral for more than an hour (Mari didn’t cross eyes with her parents once, at least not where Katarin or her family could see) and they threw out her maps and destroyed her sketches.

And then the hauntings started. Windows broke and milk spoiled. Gardens were torn apart and beds smelled strangely.  People dreamed of Silly Anatola, screeching and crying, translucent, made of shadow and smoke, and woke to find disturbing faces drawn over walls. Paint on walls changed colours and food was rotten. And people were scared, and tsked, and said that the Poggams deserved it because something was obviously wrong with that family, and Silly Anatola should have been thrown out of the village years ago.

Mari worried, because they were still her family. Katarin saw it though Mari tried to hide it, and after not much contemplation she knew what she would have to do. She remembered Old Nan’s stories, prayed to God for forgiveness and pledged she wouldn’t become the new witch of Endor, gathered her spite and love, and took her bell and a knife to house and grave.

It was small knife, dull, ungainly, grey thing. How it pulsed, how it sang when she used it to cut apart spells of dead, when she broke ghost’s power and banished her with the bell.

How alive she felt.

* * *

 

Katarin is twenty-five years old and she marries Émile Postik, the baker’s son, who has no beard and is actually shorter than her, and can carry less weight than she.  But he is a proper young man, who doesn’t go to the tavern to drink, who doesn’t respond to taunts and jibes, who will inherit a well-sought trade and shop from his father, for all people need bread, who doesn’t demand big dowry, who is loyal and honest, and whom she could have learnt to love, even if his face wasn’t attractive in it’s own way, even if he didn’t allow her to give birth in her own home (but not if he didn’t allow Mari and Houarn to move in with them). He is an ordinary young man, and they will live a perfect normal life, and they will be content.

She is seven months pregnant when she wakes up, torn out of her pleasant, perfect sleep by something burning and freezing. She was buried, she was flying, she was filled with incredible power that tore through her, undoing any other will, any other magic, banishing and cutting it away until nothing remained, and Katarin woke up.  She woke up immediately, which shouldn’t have been a possible, but she shouldn’t have fallen in such a deep sleep in first place so reality really had no place there.

The knife under her pillow was shining white, and in all the colours of world and some that weren’t comprehensible to mortal eyes, and it was darker and blacker then space between stars, and it didn’t shine at all in same time, and all around her air felt comfortably heavy, like thick, warm blanket in middle of polar blizzard.  It was sweet and lovely, like first dawn of long awaited spring, and it was everywhere, in walls and holes, in beds and noses, covering whole village, binding everybody to safe, dear dream, for hour or age.

The damned bell didn’t ring. All that trouble, all that nonsense she underwent because of it, all risk she took hiding it, and now it dared not to work! It was just like fairy’s trick, their wicked way, to give her gift that will expire after some time, or that she would need to perform some stupid ritual to maintain the gift’s power, and not tell her! Or perhaps, even more worrying thought, that some powerful fae had invaded her home, a creature so strong it could overpower others of it’s kind (it couldn’t harm the will of the Godmother, obviously, but Katarin didn’t know how powerful the knife was, and thought she had as much chance of summoning It to help as she did of calling forth Archangel Michael to help her).

She should have thought well. She should have planned and tested her theory and gotten a cross and iron. She should have taken her knife, and woken up her husband and Mari and everybody else. She should have warned the village, and they would have defended themselves-children would be first, crops and cattle were also likely target... Changelings and curses, that was all Folk brought with them, that and nothing else. She should have done all that and more, but she looked out of window.

‘’No. No, no no no, it can’t be, no!’’ She screamed, and she run down, panting, running towards borders of village, where that thing was carrying off her Old Nan, and she knew it, though years passed, because such beauty couldn’t be forgotten, because getting to see it more than once was unfair to rest of world. It was like dying after all- you should only get one shot at it.

‘’Stop! Stop, you unholy thing, let her go! Let her go or I will kill you!’’ She couldn’t have done that, or perhaps she could have, if she used the knife-it could rue even fae magic, and Old Nan said fae were made from magic, maybe, but this was no time for testing (and she wasn’t sure if she could, if she would dare raise hand against something so beautiful).

‘’How dare you, you monster... What did you do to her! What could you possibly need from helpless old granny..’’ It turned to her, as beautiful as stars and dawn, as flowers growing in desert, and she cried, cried as she spat insults upon it.

‘’You know, Katarin, I have yet to hear of young granny for all my time on this Earth.’’ It was Old Nan’s voice, same as always, full of venom and sharp as nettle, but louder, stronger, and her eyes looked impossibly clear and strong.

‘’What? But how? You are...’’ Enchanted people could never look same as their normal selves, Old nan’s stories taught that. No spell could properly mimic or utterly control something as varied and fractured as human personality. Fae especially were bad at it, as they didn’t understand concept, so they just...shut it off.

‘’In full possession of my senses, to great misfortune of that sorry excuse of headman who would like nothing more than to proclaim me senile and dangerous and kick me out to die on street. Pah! As if that would be enough to get rid of me.’’ It wouldn’t. For all her bones were fragile and her skin stretched out, Old Nan would have survived even if they buried her alive and sealed with ten miles of iron chains. She would have dug herself free.

‘’I… I don’t understand.’’ She should have been screaming, at very least. She should have been enthralled and glamoured and giggling as if she lost her mind, because it was in some strange dream world that made her utterly subservient. Not this.

‘’Katarin, I’m glad you worry so about me, but know that I’m not nearly as helpless as you think I am. We are sorry about sleep, but there was no other option.’’ Old Nan stated it in nonchalant, cold voice, while rolling her eyes, as if she was annoyed that Katarin forgot to buy something on market.

‘’Really? I somehow don’t feel assured.’’ It felt awful, her skin crawled at thought. Somebody wished for the village to sleep in a depthless dream and they did. The village could have burned down and they would have continued sleeping. That somebody could violate their mind, the last sanctum, only place that was utterly private and yours, without any effort.

‘’Well, you are right. He is sorry. I wanted him to swoop down from sky and rescue me while turning the village to rubble, but he had to be reasonable and pacifistic. Foolish and sweet, but that is why I love him.’’ And Old Nan, the untouchable presence who was harder to hug than a thornbush actually nuzzled herself against the swan man’s shoulder, and he started cooing like duckling.

‘’Rescue? Love? What do you mean? What is meaning of all this?’’ She screamed out, and it seemed as if she was struck down by thunder, as if the world was breaking in two, as if her brain was running so fast it would overheat and melt her skull.

‘’Very obvious, my dear. A tale as old as words we speak, if not even more. I am running away. With him.’’ She held onto the fae as if it was the rock in middle of sea, a solution to all problems, last ray of light in complete darkness, like man in blizzard clutching matchstick, like woman in desert gathering what water she had left.

‘’What?  No, this must be a joke. Let her go, you bastard.’’ That had to be mistake, of course, even old woman would be taken by such magical face, and bastard used it, played with poor senile helpless woman as sick game, had to be...

‘’Katarin, I am honestly becoming rather disturbed and offended by your insistence that I am but a useless thrall. Do I give off such an impression?’’ The Fae man held Old Nan as if he was carrying the most important person in the world, and she wrapped her arms around his thin and elegant throat as if she was claiming the greatest treasure.

‘’No, but... what are you talking about? It makes no sense.’’ There were no stories about old women doing these kind of things. They were donors, evil witches, or food for wolves. They didn’t get to choose.

‘’Really? I think that makes perfect sense.  After all, I am finally doing what I should have done long ago. Things these useless fools here love talking about whenever some girl looks at a lad her parents didn’t allow her.’’ But all stories had to start somewhere.

‘’I don’t understand.’’ What could she do, but stare in amazement, at Old Nan who remained so simple and mundane and clear minded even as something so impossibly wonderful held her, as Katarin’s mind buzzed from the presence that made everything seem pure and delicious.

‘’I am running away, sneaking off, for God’s sake! Bringing shame upon family, dishonoring my house! I am eloping!’’ Old Nan screamed, triumphant, enraged, laughing, crying, as if a great stone had finally fallen from her heart.

‘’You can’t be serious. That can’t be the truth.’’ that was the foolish, dumb thing empty headed maidens who wore flowers in hair and went off in dark woods to seek beautiful men did, not old women with calloused hands and tough boots.

‘’You are right. That useless brute of my husband, may his bones never know peace, isn’t alive for me to spit him in the face, nor are my parents, may sick dogs piss on their graves, to laugh at them. It’s hard to properly elope when nobody is left to care about you.’’ Vinegar was less bitter than those words.

‘’I care.’’ Words fell out of Katarin’s mouth, weak, betrayed.

‘’...I know. That is why we went with his plan, and not mine. A fetch, glamoured like the real thing, to let fools think I am finally gone.’’ It seemed time had stopped, and maybe it did, maybe they could argue for eternity-maybe it wasn’t beyond this fae’s powers.

‘’So it is his plan after all.’’ That plan was sick and awful, and she hated how thing looked at her with those beautiful, soulless eyes, she wanted nothing more then to beat it with cold iron.

‘’Were it as I wished, this stain of village would have been wiped from face of Earth, and he would come for me in the shape of things as beautiful and terrible as Genesis, with thousand eyes and mouths, and we would ascend to Heavens as all these little horrible people would be struck down unto dust. But he convinced me to give you mercy, though this place is undeserving of it.’’ She would dream that face, old and crumpled and hateful, forever.

‘’How?’’ She had to be enchanted. She had to be.

‘’You know; I can’t read minds. What were you meaning to ask?’’ Nothing enthralled could have such a common remark, such a sardonic voice.

‘’How can you talk like that! About your home, people, us! For sake of what? An unholy creature of glamour that can’t decide whether it should be a man or bird!’’ It was worse than a demon, Old Nan told her that herself (and better then angel).

‘’Well, I live here. And for somebody just playing at being man, he is better than all of the idiots I had the misfortune of meeting here.’’ She smiled at that, and looked at that beautiful, perfect face, and she didn’t want to kneel, she didn’t.

‘’What does that even mean?’’ The headman’s son was the only fool she knew, everybody else was... acceptable.

‘’You are getting repetitive. It means exactly what I said. He is more beautiful and smart and gentle than any man I ever had the misfortune to share breath with, or any woman, and he is wonderful beyond belief. He knows to use his tongue for more than just complaining and shouting, he tells me stories and poetry and tales of far away places, and he is clean and attentive. He treats me as an equal, and he sings and dances well, and he told me I have sharp mind and that I am beautiful even though I am old because autumn is just as stunning as spring, and he sleeps in nest but is better in bed than anybody here, and he makes me laugh, and he is sweet, and impossible, and magical.’’ there were tears in Old Nan’s eyes, and some strange, gentle smile.

‘’ That is just... that is just a farce! A bunch of pathetic clichéd fancy words anybody could spew, and compliments anybody could give you. ‘’ It sounded so sickly sweet, so simple and stupid and barely worth the effort (human effort, not effort of outsiders who spent thousands centuries trying to imitate a bird).

‘’But nobody ever did. Nobody ever looked at me like that, and told me such beautiful words, and flattered me. Just as nobody ever let me learn letters, or taught me what is shallow and what true poetry-but he did.’’  How thin and small and grey she looked then, it hurt to see her like that, a castle violated, a mountain destroyed.

‘’He can’t love you. you told me yourself, at beginning of every story, that his kind can’t feel, only pretend. So why do you now act as if this is some grand true love?’’ Only the weak choose sweet illusion over truth. And Old Nan wasn’t weak.

‘’I never said that.  It is no love at all, just enjoyment, greater and smaller than love. Just what I am seeking, a beautiful kind man who will listen.’’ A dreamy look passed her face, as she played with the fae’s pale hair, and his face was ageless, smooth as a young man’s, and his presence as heavy as a thousand stones, the years it experienced making her bones feel weak.

‘’You behave like a lovelorn girl.’’ Old women were silly and senile, or strong and strict. And they left passions far away, because they had no use for them.

‘’I never got the chance to be one.  I have lived for years beyond your count, wasted my lifetime being prim and proper, with no regard for myself and what is actually important.  I have been the obedient daughter and caring sister, silent wife and slaving mother, and crone who is resented for not dying my whole life. Now, when my end is near, I desire some freedom and happiness.’’ She looked as if somebody had forbidden her to feel sunlight ever again, as if she was forbidden to taste anything but ash, ever again.

‘’And you couldn’t find that in the village? You couldn’t find a human to replace your husband?’’ It wasn’t common, for old people to get so lonely they remarried, but it happened. There were enough widowers for her to choose her pick.

‘’By saints, do you listen girl? Why would I want to replace that man? If I wanted, I could have married any fool in this village, they are all the same! A boar is a better partner than these bastards!’’ Émile wasn’t like that. her father wasn’t like that. Her brothers weren’t like that.

‘’Old Nan, you aren’t thinking clearly. There may be bad men sometimes, but there is good too. Not everybody is a wife-beater or...’’ Oh no. Was that what happened? Was Old Nan’s husband so horrible that he scarred her from men forever (he was her great-grandfather, she thought, but nobody could be sure. Old Nan never talked, and people didn’t remember, but that was what always made sense).

‘’Oh my poor foolish girl, you think that is the only ill a husband can visit upon his wife? If only he hit me, if he cheated on me, then I would have had some excitement, then I would have felt free to hate him without guilt.

No, unfortunately, he was same as all other useless degenerates here, who think science is witchcraft, art madness, other languages abominations and strangers as demons, that pleasure is sin and learning a crime! No, I know plenty of such awful souls, who only seek to possess and tear apart others, and leave you with less than nothing, and I am tired of them! If I need to go to monsters to get something back for all the effort and care I put into people, I very well shall!’’ She stood. She stood, because the fae man put her down, and supported her, but she stood as she hadn’t in many long, long years.

‘’You have us.’’ A cry, a plea, dying voice barely getting out.

‘’A horde of bawling children and screaming descendants is faulty compensation for not seeing a unicorn.’’ And was that what this all was about? A foolish child’s dream, never realized?

‘’They are not that great. They are nothing worth abandoning us.’’ They weren’t as beautiful as fae, she said, ignoring how her throat hurt from lying, because it knew, oh the swan man knew.

‘’And you have right to think so. Just as you have right to choices and to live as you want, as long as it harms nobody. And so do I. So do I, and I have been denied life for far too long. I am tired of starving my soul and numbing my mind for the sake of propriety of others. God gave me spirit and brain and I am allowed to use it!’’ Old Nan shouted, in a voice that was stronger than storm or the breaking of stone, a voice that would have woken up whole village if they weren’t ensorcelled.

‘’I don’t understand! I don’t understand how you can do this to us and claim you are not harming anybody! And for the sake of what?’’ There were so many people who loved her, and she would be dead to them, when Katarin’s child should have been born. Better to stab them all than hurt them like that.

‘’And I don’t understand how you can stand living in this Hell!’’ Snot and tears run down wrinkled face and mixed, and she leaned in pale, gleaming, perfect _nude_ chest, as if she had done that thousand times, and Katarin blushed and choked, as filthy thoughts fled through her head.

‘’...This is your home. This is best place on Earth.’’ If heaven didn’t look like Lanillis, Katarin wasn’t sure if she would accept it.

‘’No, this isn’t my home. This is my dungeon. This is a nightmare where I wasted decades instead of travelling and exploring. And the best place in world, really? I thought you were smarter. That you weren’t infected with hatred and stupidity like all others. What makes _this_ the best place on Earth? How can you know, when you have never left it?’’ Katarin took a step back, as if Old Nan would spit at her, hit her, hands trembling with rage.

‘’I have. I have been to the forest.’’ She had seen the depths and darkness that existed beyond borders of civilization, and she would do everything to forget them.

‘’Forest. The forest is barely twenty steps away. Have you ever been to mountains, islands? Have you seen other villages, cities, seas? Do you know how wide and beautiful the world is out there? How much there is to see, how many wonderful people to meet? I know, because he showed me. He showed me, when I asked, through my dreams, places where night can last for months, and where almost everybody is fisherman, and where there is nothing but sand for leagues around you, and where lakes are filled with salt. He showed me flying palaces and cottages painted unlike any, he helped me meet a princess who spun silvery cloth and an old woman who spoke thirteen languages.  And this place could be just as beautiful and worthy, but people refuse to let it be!’’ Nobody in Lanillis ever said that. Everybody loved their home more then anything. Nobody would ever leave it, except degenerates. That was what everybody said.

‘’This is the beautiful place. We live well. Everybody is normal.’’ She never heard Old Nan say anything bad about the outside world, she realized.

‘’There is no normal! Normal can’t exist because everybody is special in their own way! What you call normal is just what happens when somebody starts pressuring others to behave like them! And it changes, it changes with each generation and everybody refuses to see that! I have lived through generation after generation, of people supressing everybody else’s wishes and dreams for sake of that damned normalcy, while allowing horrible evils to happen because they don’t like talking about them! How can it be shame to travel for the sake of better jobs when you are the thirteenth child but perfectly normal to throw out a young woman and her babe because of the father’s mistake?’’ Katarin remembered Mari, sobbing near the cold well, and Houarn crying and everybody sneering or ignoring her.

‘’But life is good here. We have food and can pay taxes and we have a big enough house.’’ Even their second hand things were good.

‘’That isn’t living. That is surviving, going through the motions.  And the world is more than that.

I refuse to be content with scraps and starvation under guises of being humble and moderate. A world is full of beauty and pleasure that is denied here because it falls a bit outside of what was named normal, and only now do I realize it is not my problem to teach all these people to live. I tried and failed and now I am walking away. There is such beauty and knowledge in this world, and thousands of kind, wise people, and countless delicious pleasures to sate my soul, to stimulate my spirit, to make up for all my lost time. I can be somebody, I can do something with my life, accomplish something that makes my time on Earth worth it.’’ Fame, pride, success beyond the village... That wasn’t worth being disowned, everybody always said, everybody but Old Nan.

‘’You have already done that. These people respect you because...’’ Because... Because...

‘’They fear and hate me because I dare speak out my mind when the headman claims we can’t fix the road but he can buy new furniture. When I spit on them for gossiping in church. When I complain about them mocking their own children in public. But I haven’t managed to stop it, so I have accomplished nothing. I have done nothing worth remembering.’’ Oh, so she could accept twisting truth from fae, but not her? (She knew fae couldn’t speak that, because there needs to be grain of truth to work with and mould in something else).

‘’You have. Every child who tasted your pie will remember you fondly, every woman you helped knit...’’ Everybody you worked yourself to bone will remember you were always ready to help. In love and fondness, dead lived on. Sweet memories were worth more than gold.

‘’I slaved and worked for bunch of brats, for hens and idiots, for smug jerks who show up and demand I help them then they dare complain how I am not fast enough even though I am this old. And that what you are saying is a big fat lie. People like us never get remembered, because we are meant to exist as servants. Your grandmother made pies ten times wonderful as mine, and do you see people honour her? Do you see one child saying she is their idol; do you see people being awed by her accomplishments? No, you don’t. She got only a grave visited several times a year and sometimes somebody saying how she was a good mother and wife, which means she was a good servant. I refuse to consign myself to such a cursed fate. I want something for myself. He is just a side attraction, even if he is so worth it all.’’ He didn’t flinch at that. He too understood their relationship was built on fancy and whim, and so he would see her wishes realized.

‘’And what will you do if you go with him? What will you have left?’’ Nobody could live without love. Such relationships would only hurt later on.

‘’I have my brain and passion, and his magic. I have learnt four new languages and I have my legs, and I know to cook and clean and sew and care for animals, and be polite and kind at the same time which these people never figured out. I have my will and patience and I have gotten glasses, and I have spirit and logic and initiative. I have my hate and my hope, and they will keep me strong through ages, as they have done so all this time. I will go on, in free world, and I shall see what beauty it has to offer, pick up new trades and teachings, meet other people, find friends and adventure, and enjoy myself.

Let me have that, Katarin. Go and forget this ever happened, and everybody will be much happier.’’ Only Old Nan could order and beg at the same time.

‘’How can I forget this?’’ She would have easier time forgetting end of world.

‘’That can be arranged. He can take away your memories easily. Don’t you, my sweetest?’’ And Katarin paled, from rage and shock, and fear and outrage gripped her.

**‘’Dearest, that should be her choice.’’**

And she shouted then, screamed and cried, because he was nobody to her, because he was nothing, and he was a wicked unholy soulless abomination, he shouldn’t have been the reasonable one, her Old Nan should be the one with basic amount of common decency, not that thing who was strange and beautiful and magical and who she would never forget, and who...

‘’I choose to call upon debt! Upon a favor I am owed, by your word and honor! I have saved life of your sister’s pet, and you will cede my Old Nan back! You shall let her go, no matter what happens, and never again will you come close to her, never again shall you contact her, by letter or messenger or dream or any other way! You will leave her, and never again shall you see her, and you will end your magic over my village and never harm it again, unless you are an oath breaker!’’ And she relished in fear at his face, at sorrow, as he fell on knees, as he clutched the cloak, wings, _freedom_ she returned him, as he faded away like morning fog, as she remembered Old Nan’s words ( _none there is among swan folk, who hasn’t been abused by human_ ), as he clutched and kissed Old Nan’s wrinkled, knobby, spotted hand and whispered words she couldn’t hear, and it felt as if hope died when he was finally gone.

‘’Everything will be all right. Everything will be normal again. We are going home, Old Nan.’’ She may sob and scream now, but she would see it was all for her own good, when Katarin dragged her home.

* * *

 

‘’Katarin. Katarin, let me tell you a story, for the last time.’’ Old Nan’s voice is weak and frail, and her yellowed face is sweating, and her hair lays tangled and dirty on pillow. Fever holds her, and still she speaks, trying to grasp Katarin’s hand like terrified, wounded beast.

‘’You need to rest, Old Nan.’’ She ill, and weak, and old, and she refuses to speak and when she does she faints, and Katarin knows there will come day soon when Old Nan won’t be able to open her eyes, and she knows woman will die with curse on her lips, and dreaming of fae she saw (as one day, so will Katarin, and her daughter and Mari’s son).

‘’Rest? There is no rest for me but a grave, girl. You made sure of that. Let me tell you this story, for I must set it free before I die, and if I must shout from rooftops to accomplish then I shall.’’ Katarin would have fought her before, but Nan is old and dying, and soon Katarin may never hear her voice again, so she treasures even her insults.

‘’Very well. Say it.’’ It will be another story about fairies, about enchantments and beauty and running away from humanity. Katarin would have thought it a cruel and bitter move on the old woman’s part, if it wasn’t for the look of delight in those tired eyes, glistening of tears, how the poor biddy shook and whispered, as if those stories were the last rays of light in darkness, as if she was trying to warm herself with a matchstick during a polar blizzard.

‘’Once upon a time, there was village. It was small and ugly and boring, and full of stupid people, who hated and feared anything that was different, and to whom a foreigner was worse than Satan, and who hated learning and happiness above all. It wasn’t yet called Lanillis, for names change easily, and nobody but me remembers what they called it, for as today people were stupid and arrogant, and never wrote things down, nor did they pass things on through storytelling, for art and thinking were despised there.

In one house lived a girl, who was most troubles, for she was beholden to three great, abominable sins. She asked questions, and wanted, and imagined.  She could find beauty in the rotting apple, and fun in the washing of linens, and that greatly plagued her family, for she could not be controlled and possessed, like some mindless cow.

They never beat her, never harmed her. They weren’t cruel, and they thought that made them kind. Her father saw her as his possession, her mother saw her as her copy, her siblings saw her as a toy, by her relatives as a servant.  Because she could never be content, that one, and that irritated them so much. Oh, how those fools raged! What an impossible child, they sighed. And they refused to accept that she wasn’t content because there was nothing to be happy about. People like them can’t be happy, because they always find something to complain about, so they work to suck out whatever ounce of joy they can find in anybody else. They are like crabs in bucket, people.

And they raged, for whatever work was assigned to the girl, she refused to stop dreaming and desiring and learning.  They denied her right to learn letters for she was a woman, for which she didn’t feel bitter much, for none but priests were literate (she did turn bitter later though, when she forced children to learn yet was forbidden to attend lessons too, for it wouldn’t have been proper). They denied her right to travel, to learn to draw, to weave and embroider her own designs, to tell stories to children. For allowing somebody to learn means allowing people to express themselves, which means they can be happy. And that would mean accepting people can be different, which would mean foreigners are people. And we can’t have that, can we?

So they tried to destroy her spirit, crush her happiness, erase the fact she could find work interesting. Because they wouldn’t admit that, but they hated their lives too, hated having to rise early and work until late into the night, and how dare she find happiness in such a life when they can’t? So they married her, and soon she had children, and thus they ruined her.

Her husband was a blacksmith, and he didn’t beat her, didn’t force her, didn’t cheat on her, didn’t insult her, and he thought that made him kind. And she would have preferred that to what he was- boring.  For years he and his horrible offspring suffocated her, ruined all that was alive in her, stopped any thought and desire until she was just a machine for taking care of the house, until her soul was so tired it didn’t care if it was alive or dead. For decades she lived like that, stripped of her dreams and wishes, for she had no time for them. She did thrice the work of her husband, keeping the house, helping with all his jobs, caring for children, and yet none acknowledged her.

And one day, salvation came to her. A child walked into village, dressed in clothes that were once rich but were now torn. He was pale and sickly and had no horse, but one big bag, and he asked at the inn to be let to rest. And though innkeeper was greedy, and eyed gold coins hungrily, his pride and loyalty to the stupid village was far too great, and he didn’t allow the stranger boy to rest within, and neither did any house, but sent him to sleep in the woods. And they laughed at how weak and hurt he looked, and how horrible he was, to think they would host him, and only one woman, who was fifty-seven and surrounded by cruel and stupid neighbors, did see how polite he was, and how kind to horses and passing animals, and the hesitant way he walked and held himself, the scared way he looked and talked.

It was village full of stupidity and cruelty, and she knew how children were raised without love or care, but with bruises and mockery, looked.

So she went to the woods, and she brought him old blankets and food, for he was fourteen and frail, and not that different from her pimply grandsons, not at all, but for the fact he had some manners (for people in that village were raised to show only the barest of politeness to anybody who wasn’t their family). He tried to deny her, but she would have none of that. So he ate her bread with rabbits and birds he caught and skinned with her knife, and she told him of nonsenses she glimpsed in the village, for he was the first soul she met who liked talking for the sake of talking, and he read to her from his book of poetry.

And that is where it started!

He read to her, because she asked, and he didn’t judge, and strength and life returned to her!  She was filled with energy and vitality, full of hunger and need. She remembered that there was more to world than the lack and the void her stupid home would call humility and moderation. That there can be pleasure and loss, mourning and feasting, that there can be joy and tragedy, that life can be terribly and wonderful. She remembered when she wanted more, when she dreamed big, when she asked about everything, starved for knowledge and beauty and purpose.

They talked, they discussed, and so he told her that she was smartest person he had ever met! That was the first time somebody had ever given her compliment, that somebody saw something actually valuable in her, and so she turned that energy inside herself to some purpose. She started dreaming and hoping and planning again, she used her brain and so her world was grey and empty no more.

And she asked why he was travelling, and he confided in her that he was the prince, and third son, and on quest to rescue princess held captive by an evil wizard, because he was a horrible man and somebody had to save the girl, to do something, even if her father said she was useless. Because it was wrong, and the village would have laughed at that but she, she burned, because that was the affirmation and confirmation she needed, that she wasn’t alone in the world who thought so, that she wasn’t mad, because now she started deciding and acting, and she fought against injustice in her cursed home, against children and wives beaten, against elders left at streets, against daughters thrown out and against demanding millers. She fought to change things, even though those people despised it, even though it took her lifetimes to accomplish crumbs, even though they all deserved to burn and fall to plague. She put her nose in everything and made everybody’s business her own, because if she did nothing she was complicit in wrongdoing, she had stained her own soul with cowardice and cruelty and apathy, that most terrible of curses and illnesses.

Word soon got around that frail boy was prince, and oh how they ran! How they came, with food and compliments and always seeking favors, and how crestfallen and afraid they looked when he refused them, when he walked into the woods. He left her a bag of coins, and the book of poetry, and first her family spent, for which she couldn’t blame them, and second they burned, and for that she didn’t weep at their funerals. They burned it, and over long years her memories burned too, until she forgot his name and face, until the boy who was sweeter to her than her own sons or nephews or grandsons or brothers or any descendant was no more a person, but just a shadow of remembrance, a faded symbol of hope, the vehicle of her salvation and return, a match that sparked the embers of her passion. She never knew whether he became the hero he was in spirit, whether she retold one of his tales to her dim and boring descendants, or whether he was lost to history, whether he perished trying to save poor girl who deserved no wrong done to her, whether his death was glorious and terrible or simple and mundane. She only knew that after a long time passed, she was the only one praying for him.

And she never knew what happened with the princess. Did the poor girl run away from her tower, did she ever see her family again? Did she see the wicked wizard die; did she toss his body off the tower? Did she have nightmares, did she steal the wizard’s own magic and turned it against him? Did she live long and happy, and did she become queen? She told many tales about princesses, this woman, but never knew what happened to this one, whose name she too forgot, and yet claimed as hers, because she liked to think she aided in her rescue at least a bit. Because she too wanted to ride out and save all girls like her, princesses and milkmaids alike. But her horrible village, may it be wiped from the face of Earth, they stopped her!

How they twisted him, in their tales-for there is always learning and storytelling, no matter whether it is just gossip, no matter how much they try to ban it. They took the poor child’s story, and twisted him into an arrogant predator, into a spoiled brat, and she wasn’t strong or brave enough to stop it when she grew old, and she wasn’t important or smart enough to listen to when she was young. Even if he didn’t save the princess and defeat the wizard, even if he died in woods, he deserved to be fondly remembered for his kindness.

She tried to run away thrice when she was a child, you know. She tried the same when she was a woman grown. They dragged her back, always, no matter how cunning she was, for she had no magic to save her, and no friend in this horrible place. They dragged her back, and one day, years and years later after she remembered who she was, she was cleaning her eldest son’s workroom, polishing his hammers, for of course he inherited his father’s work as well as his house and stupid, boring brain.

It was the Pottery Fair, and she was conflicted. For to those fools art was a strange and stupid word, one meant for useless people that only thought and changed things, a craft for fools and shameless, and yet they based whole spectacles on sculpting and crafting and dancing and music.

And yet, it felt horrible to call it art, those same, boring, uninspired designs, that drunk bouncing, screeching of badly-crafted instruments, especially after the poems she had heard, the stories she drew out of the sick and old, the dances she imagined in her head.

And she saw how they looked at their neighbors, and people from their neighboring villages, and how they boasted about their ugly and boring pots, which they called magnificent and incredible even though each looked same, and remembered how only times in her life she had been slapped was when she tried to draw flower on pot, and complimented another girl on work she did, and thought about buying something from neighbor instead of her aunt, and rage swelled up in her, such that village would dread it for years to come, even after they forgot who she was, even after they twisted and destroyed her story, reduced her part for sake of a random child who didn’t stay there a month, and ruined his image, and ages would pass and she would watch child after child turn into an idiot or die bitter, so bitter it would return them from beyond grave,  like Poor Paul who had a beautiful voice but wasn’t allowed to go and train it, or Silly Anatola who wanted to be a painter and haunted her children’s home for generations in vengeance before she even died, and hundreds of others, and she would join them someday, when her hope had gone out and only hate was left and...

I took the hammer, and I swung it, and I would do so again, no matter how tightly they chain me.’’

She looked almost young now. She was healthy and strong and tears in her eyes glittered like diamonds upon sunrays, and her smile was so wide and pure and mad, and she was burning, burning with conviction, and standing her ground like mountains,  free as tempest, devastating like flood, and Katarin was crying weakly and slowly, as she felt something in her wither and turn to dust, as she felt her mind failing, detaching itself from stream of time and consciousness, as every rule was rewritten and spat upon, as foundations of world shook as if built on rotten reeds.

‘’...That was centuries ago.’’ _I have my hate and my hope, and they will keep me strong through ages, as they have done so all this time._

‘’You are mine still. I lost count after nine generations, and everybody was too stupid to notice, and too cowardly to mention something that would have brought a change. Were I without family, I would have freed myself long ago.

But I was still bound here, by your stupidity, by my misplaced care and responsibility for you. For time untold I suffered and rotted here, trying to make people out of you all, trying to make this miserable place in something deserving of being called home.

And once again have I been struck numb and tired, a machine that listened to everybody’s whining and made meat pies, until one night thirty three years ago, like a starved bloodhound I smelled magic, finally coming to this cursed place, and I went in storm and forest, to a ring of toadstools, with offerings of honey and milk, ready to give up my life just to once see something beautiful and strange and _magic_ in my life.

And he, he who was so far above everything I was, who was better than any dream, he came and I felt so blessed, I felt alive like when I was girl and dreaming again, when I knew I was worth something, and I was ready to offer him my throat and he-

...  He carried me home, and dried me, and thanked me for the offerings after he wrapped me up in a woolen blanket and healed me. And when I asked him to stay and listen to my stories, he did. He listened to me, and he didn’t sneer or laugh, but gasp and bow.’’ There is no pity in Old Nan’s smile, only savage satisfaction, and hunger and accusation and rage.

* * *

 

There is a new unicorn in the woods.

She hears it first, from pigs and birds and ants, from all things that fly and travel through woods and swim through streams. The old unicorn has died, for even they have time allotted to them. A foal patrols the woods now, young and new, though nobody, that is nothing knows how it came to be, and wouldn’t tell her even if they did, even if she asked.

People too learn of it soon. The foal, or however such thing should be called, isn’t careful enough. It freely wanders through wood’s borders, plays with other animals, leaves trail of flowers and healing herbs behind it’s hooves, doesn’t use spells of invisibility and confusion to hide itself. And when villagers glimpse it...

‘’That beast must be put down! Our children can’t be safe with such a menace in our land!’’ People say, after body after body turns out, because that is but a horse untamed, from land and time that never knew plough and chain of humanity, but armed with horn and magic, and it won’t be hunted down. So they go into woods, young and old, brave men of village, even her Émile, even though they all laugh at him, even if he barely can carry all chains and pitchforks they will need, and they bring virgins with them.

‘’It is an animal you can’t eat. There is no point in catching it.’’ Old Nan whispers, shaking, almost crying, scared and trembling, and she is right, because unicorns don’t seek out humans, because it doesn’t prey on cattle, because it only eats bits of grass and replaces it with new plants when it walks and purifies streams, because there is no point in keeping it around house or killing it unless you want a trophy,  and always humans want that, since forever they wanted to chain and rule and keep all that is wild and strange and wonderful, because they want to possess it, and if they can’t they destroy it (there is reason why so many of the fairest maidens run away from their castles and homes into deep dark woods), and the unicorn doesn’t want to harm anybody, it just wants to sleep and eat grass, and unicorns have lived in those woods for longer than humanity has walked Earth anyway and...

Those are people Katarin loves. Neighbors, friends, the father of her future child, cousins, people Mari likes. Katarin takes out the Godmother’s knife (it will never belong to her, because she has no right to something so beautiful, because that is the only loan that will never respect her miniscule power) and stabs the ground with it, and prays, to whoever might be listening and all saints and land and Godmother and God, a plea to bind and undo unicorn’s power, to weaken it, because a creature like that has magic and spells in blood and bones, and if the knife can undo the will of fae then it can bind unicorn.

And so, after hours and hours, a mob comes, and they carry and sing for sake of Émile, who clutches a horn in his hand, broken and pearly, and there is newfound respect for him, in so by association Postiks (and therefore Mari and her son too) evident that night, as they retell the story around fires.

‘’For our children, a gift to grace their home.’’ He says to Katarin and Mari, presenting horn to them, and she was far too happy to prepare for what must come, because Old Nan had never been able to let injustice go unpunished.

* * *

 

‘’Katarin! Katarin wake up, please, please we have to go! Damn it, wake up already!’’ Mari screams, her voice so shrill and cutting, and tears cloud her eyes even more then smoke.  Katarin opens her own, but she can’t move, because childbirth has taken too much strength from her. She sees flames, feels her eyes tear and burn, feels as if her brain is melting, but her bones are far too heavy, she can’t move.

‘’For God’s sake! You will thank us for this later!’’ Screams Enora when Katarin tenses and jerks as her sister tears out the babe from her embrace, carrying Katarin’s daughter along with Mari’s son, as Mari takes her up and carries her same way Émile carried her over the threshold. Smoke coils around them, stings, and she knows that if she could move she would have been ready to tear out her eyes, just to stop it, the pain, the flames licking stairs, feeding on old, dry wood, everything bright and pale orange...

She doesn’t know what is happening; only that everybody is with them, that everybody is screaming and crying, that the family is still together, that outside some gawk and others bring water, but they can’t help because flames are too big and hungry and everybody is there except...

Old Nan walks, upright and strong as a warrior queen, and her hair flails like molten silver around her, and oh how she smiles, wide and savage, and she is so much more than a helpless old woman, here and now she is legend, she is mystery, she is somebody who will shake the world, and Katarin can understand how the fae would fall in love with her, and she sees Old Nan raise her hands in supplication to heavens, sees the broken horn rise and fly, and she doesn’t know if it does that of it’s own will or Old Nan flings it while screaming curses at them, and it isn’t important because...

Because her husband burns. He burns, as that horrid spear, whiter than bone and snow, tears through his chest, and white flame surrounds him, in explosion that sounds like music and that is stronger than the cries that leave her, Mari’s, everybody’s throat, than his own screams, than Old Nan’s cheery laughter. And it seems to last eternity, but in a second Émile is but ash, and the flame isn’t satisfied. It grows, it consumes fire around them all, and it shapes herself, it is a unicorn burning and scorching, and it screams, screams helpless and innocent in what Katarin must know is its death cry, and she screams alongside it, even as it runs, as it chases down her parents and in-laws, Enora and all her siblings, as it tramples them under it’s coal-bright hooves. It grows, and it devours a house, it is as tall as the first unicorn she saw, the only one she saw, and she knows it was just a foal, she can’t hate it as it turns its eyes on Mari, on Katarin, on their children, because they did nothing...

Old Nan’s face is cold and weak, almost soft and scared, and her eyes are wide and wet as her lips flail and the unicorn ghost, flame turns away and runs towards village, towards Lanillis, towards hell upon earth, and blood is shed and repaid. They see nothing too strange, just fire a bit too gold and strong passing from house to house, taking Postiks and Poggams and Souvestres and many more, and later some would say it was an unpreventable tragedy and others would blame it on her family when they didn’t think Katarin could hear, but this is what she remembered for rest of her life.

Mari drags her out, carries her babes (spared by the flames, for Enora burned and broke and yet the children slept contently and in truth even seemed a bit stronger and healthier afterwards), and they are unharmed even if three thirds of the village have been wiped out, even if the whole pottery fair, each small shop set up by locals and filled with identical dishes is reduced to dust.

Inside, Old Nan burns and dances.

* * *

 

‘’How are you going to call her?’’ Mari asks, once Katarin’s daughter is born, once Katarin can walk again, and of course she took her to the graveyard first, because that is what became of their home, that is the one and only way her daughter will ever meet her father, her relatives, her daughter will have nobody but her and Mari to rely on, she will never know the joys and wonders of a giant family to lean on, and of course Mari came with her, because this is her family too now.

Katarin watches Old Nan’s grave, piled high with wonderful flowers of all colors and remembers, and knows, memories that are honey and bile mixed together.

‘’Bellah.’’ She says, and now she thinks, she understands why Mari named her son after her father, and the two of them hold hands.

* * *

 

‘’I thought your Folk couldn’t set foot upon consecrated ground.’’ Katarin said, and the manlike creature who was as young and as ancient as dew looked upon her, and she saw nothing in his eyes, and yet she understood her Old Nan for one moment, knowing that if she was the queen of the whole world, she would have slit her throat if he asked her to.

‘’Misinformation that entered folklore, based on similar fact. We can’t attack true believers here, and starting trouble isn’t recommended-its rude, you see. Though, given how your Lord’s word is practiced here, I dare say I would be awarded if I brought this parody down.’’ He answers, and that voice is still the sweetest thing you had ever heard, the softest thing, the safest thing. He is looking at the village church, and if he asked, she would have been first to set the timber ablaze.

‘’You loved her, and listened sometimes to her. She told me that, she was very glad for you. That should be awarded. Here-this stick will carry you whenever on Earth you want, however you wish.’’ He says, and she knows more talking could incur a debt, and she doesn’t try to resist when he gives her the wand, white and slick and warm as if it is still living. Still, she asks.

‘’You don’t seem too broken up over what happened.’’ She dares accuse, for his face is sweet and beautiful and angelic, and the most beautiful flowers bloom at his feet.

‘’My kind doesn’t feel, or weep. It takes effort for us to manage to portray it somewhat accurately. I am sorry for your losses.’’ He says it truthfully, without trick or false sympathy and sorrow, in voice as clear as crystal, and rage and gratitude swell in her.

‘’So it was all just a game to you.’’ She says, because of course it was, because a man of Faery could never love anything, much less somebody mortal and fallible, and she will mourn for Old Nan who couldn’t find love in the human world, couldn’t know warmth and affection so she sought out fantasy.

‘’I will remember her forever. I will treasure the sight of her shadow, the feel of hair on her calloused skin, the sound of her shouting, the smell of sweat and blood and kitchen seeped in her clothes, the taste of her dirt-covered palm. When stars die, I will remember her.’’ He answers, and that is the best he can do, and Katarin can’t understand why that is better than love and trust, just as Old Nan couldn’t understand why somebody would choose a simple boring life when they could burn themselves in history od world, leave their trail blazing and burning.

‘’ I can’t believe she is truly gone.’’ She admits, because Old Nan was the pillar of her family, of her world, of Lanillis, and she can’t imagine life without her because that is like trying to imagine winter without cold or night. Without darkness or funeral without death, and because there is so much more she wanted to say, to apologize, to scream at her, and because she hadn’t seen the body, only charred, carbonized husks left behind once the white flame had finished its rampage, unrecognizable and scattered into dust.

‘’Well, I can’t say. I promised to keep my distance, and oaths we must fulfill.’’ And he goes away, and it feels as if summer never came again she would have been gladder for that than this, if the Sun had died that loss would have been easier to bear, if no child was ever again born she’d shoulder it easier, and Katarin knows that debt of vengeance for dreams shattered is fulfilled, by knowledge forever forbidden, by secret she will never learn and question she will never answer, by closure denied.

* * *

 

She is dying, because she is old though not as old as she could have been, as most of things she met were. She is dying because she is sick and there are no true doctors in Lanillis. She is dying because she has been for far too long in cold and rain, and now she is paying price, and she isn’t sorry because her and Mari’s children will have a bit more fire because of that.

She is surrounded by friends and family, laying in the bed next to Mari, and it is an awful and strange thought, that she is glad she is there with her, though she cries at the misfortune that found the dearest woman on Earth, that the world shall lose her kindness and her cheese-making skills.

She will rest soon, they will rest soon, the two of them, once the fever spreads. Their children will cry, and their friends will mourn them, but they are strong and they will go on. She gave her daughter her gifts, and she knows that girl makes up rhymes and incantations when she thinks Katarin isn’t looking, and that she will be a hero, and she is sure Mari’s son will be with her. And they will be stories, as will her great-granddaughter be, and she is glad she will be forgotten, her satisfaction full of spite and gratitude.

So for now, Katarin dreams.

She dreams of her childhood, of that faraway morning of her life, the lost spring of her earthly time, and how beautiful and impossible now it seems, and she remembers each house that burned and was lost.

She dreams of things she could have been, a mage and kitchen wretch, a mother of thirteen and spinster, and a rich woman and burned corpse, and each offers its temptation but this life she lived is dearest to her.

She dreams of ascending up in light with Mari, young and strong again, and her family meeting them, all friends and cousins and siblings she lost, listening to Enora complain about Mari’s taste, kissing her husband, watching Mari reconcile with Katarin’s stepmother and aunts.

She dreams of a woman old in body and young in spirit, filled with bitter hope and excited hate, riding a horse in adventures and legends, saving the helpless and protecting the weak, searching for the loophole in favours and in promises, always learning, and for a moment she almost stops then she puffs and says ‘’Should be glad I didn’t stab her’’ and then rides off into the sunset, because there is so much in the whole wide world to see and experience and appreciate, and wickedness to thwart.

She dreams, always and forever, of combing a keening woman’s hair, of a swan man singing for her, of Godmother smiling dark and shining at her, and she is happier than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> And here is end! I hope you like it and aren't disappointed. 
> 
> I didn't get to put it in fic, because no time, and also because that would just side-track conversation and Old Nan isn't type to throw out private stuff like that out, but swan fae, like all fey, isn't too concerned with gender. Naturally he is shapeless incorporeal force of magic, and he takes male or female form however he pleases. In fact, when they met, he was in form of maiden, and had just escaped husband who claimed her wings, leaving her sisters to...dispose of trash.
> 
> I would have liked to develop Katarin's mundane life more, but alas I didn't divide time and changed plans too much. But it works like this too, to hammer in how much more vivid and powerful fae are than human life.  
> Most names are references to people who collected stories about groagez.
> 
> Title is reference to piece of dialogue from Lousie Hawes's Cinderella retelling ,,Ashes'' in her collection Black Pearls:  
> "'Sweep them away? Toss them aside? Who are you to preach simplicity? I have done without your sweet deceptions my whole life, while you were playing at draughts and bending your knee to nothing more demanding than a dance tune! I dreamt of your despised courtesies while I lived a life of truth and ashes. Your gowns and your gossip kept me alive and warm with desire?Sweep them away? I would sooner die!"


End file.
